SUSSEX    GORSE 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  TRAMPING   METHODIST 

STARBRACE 

SPELL   LAND 

ISLE   OF  THORNS 

THREE   AGAINST   THE   WORLD 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON 


WILLOW'S   FORGE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


SUSSEX  GORSE 

THE  STORY  OF  A  FIGHT 


BY 

SHEILA   KAYE-SMITH 


NEW    YORK 
ALFRED    A.    KNOPF 

MCMXVI 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

PROLOGUE.  THE  CHALLENGE      .  i 

BOOK  I        THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT  .       .  22 

BOOK  II       THE  WOMAN'S  PART             .  .       .  78 

BOOK  III     THE  ELDER  CHILDREN          .  .  120 

BOOK  IV      TREACHERIES  .       .  192 

BOOK  V       ALMOST  UNDER       .  .  243 

BOOK  VI      STRUGGLING  UP                    .  •       •  331 

BOOK  VII    THE  END  IN  SIGHT  .  382 

BOOK  VIII  THE  VICTORY           .              .  .       .  432 


394104 


SUSSEX  GORSE 

PROLOGUE 
THE    CHALLENGE 


BOARZELL  FAIR  had  been  held  every  year  on 
Boarzell  Moor  for  as  long  as  the  oldest  in  Peas- 
marsh  could  remember.  The  last  Thursday  in 
October  was  the  date,  just  when  the  woods  were 
crumpling  into  brown,  and  fogs  blurred  the  wavy 
sunsets. 

The  Moor  was  on  the  eastern  edge  of  the  parish,  five 
miles  from  Rye.  Heaving  suddenly  swart  out  of  the 
green  water-meadows  by  Socknersh,  it  piled  itself 
towards  the  sunrise,  dipping  to  Leasan  House.  It  was 
hummocked  and  tussocked  with  coarse  grass  —  here  and 
there  a  spread  of  heather,  growing,  like  all  southern 
heather,  almost  arboreally.  In  places  the  naked  soil 
gaped  in  sores  made  by  coney-warrens  or  uprooted 
bushes.  Stones  and  roots,  sharn,  shards,  and  lumps  of 
marl,  mixed  themselves  into  the  wealden  clay,  which 
oozed  in  red  streaks  of  potential  fruitfulness  through 
their  sterility. 

The  crest  of  Boarzell  was  marked  by  a  group  of  firs, 
very  gaunt  and  wind-bitten,  rising  out  of  a  mass  of 
gorse,  as  the  plumes  of  some  savage  chief  might  nod 
mangily  above  his  fillet.  When  the  gorse  was  in  bloom, 


2  SUSSEX   GORSE 

one  caught  the  flare  of  it  from  the  Kentish  hills,  or  away 
westward  from  Brightling  and  Dallington.  This  day  in 
the  October  of  1835,  the  flowerets  were  either  nipped  or 
scattered,  or  hidden  by  the  cloths  the  gipsies  had  spread 
to  dry  on  the  bushes. 

The  gipsies  always  camped  on  the  flanks  of  the  Fair, 
which  they  looked  on  with  greater  detachment  than  the 
gaujos  who  crowded  into  its  heart,  either  selling  or 
buying,  doing  or  being  done.  Just  within  the  semi- 
circle of  their  earth-coloured  tents  were  the  caravans 
of  the  showmen,  gaudily  painted,  with  seedy  horses  at 
tether,  very  different  from  the  Romany  gris.  Then 
came  the  booths,  stalls  piled  with  sweets  in  an  interest- 
ing state  of  preservation,  trays  of  neck  and  shoulder 
ribbons,  tinsel  cords,  tin  lockets  with  glass  stones,  all 
fairings,  to  be  bought  out  of  the  hard-won  wages  of 
husbandry  in  love.  Then  there  was  the  panorama, 
creaking  and  torn  in  places,  but  still  giving  a  realistic 
picture  of  the  crowning  of  King  William ;  there  was  the 
merry-go-round,  trundled  noisily  by  two  sweating  cart- 
horses; there  was  the  cocoa-nut  shy,  and  the  fighting 
booth,  in  the  doorway  of  which  half-breed  Buck 
Washington  loved  to  stand  and  display  his  hairy  chest 
between  the  folds  of  his  dressing-gown ;  and  there  was 
the  shooting-gallery,  where  one  could  pot  at  the  card- 
board effigies  of  one's  hates,  Lord  Brougham  who  had 
robbed  the  poor  working  man  of  his  parish  relief,  or 
Boney,  still  a  blood-curdler  to  those  who  had  seen  the 
building  of  the  Martello  towers. 

To-day  business  was  bad.  Here  and  there  a  plough- 
boy  pulled  up  his  slop  and  fumbled  for  pennies  in  his 
corduroys,  but  for  the  most  part  the  stalls  were  deserted, 
even  in  certain  cases  by  their  holders.  This  was  not 
because  the  Fair  was  empty.  On  the  contrary,  it  was 
much  more  crowded  than  usual ;  but  the  crowd 
clotted  into  groups,  all  discussing  the  same  thing — the 
Inclosure. 


PROLOGUE— THE  CHALLENGE     3 

It  was  some  months  since  Sir  John  Bardon,  Squire 
of  the  Manor  of  Flightshot,  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
Inclosure  Act  and  manoeuvred  a  bill  for  the  inclosure 
of  Boarzell.  Since  then  there  had  been  visits  of  com- 
missioners, roamings  of  surveyors,  deliveries  of  schedules, 
strange  talk  of  turbary  and  estovers,  fire-bote  and  house- 
bote.  The  neighbourhood  was  troubled,  perplexed. 
Then  perplexity  condensed  into  indignation  when  all 
that  Inclosure  stood  for  became  known — no  more 
pasturage  for  the  cow  or  goat  which  meant  all  the 
difference  between  wheaten  and  oaten  bread,  no  more 
wood-gleanings  for  fire  or  wind-beaten  roof,  no  more  of 
the  tussocky  grass  for  fodder,  or  of  gorse  to  toughen 
palings  against  escaping  fowls. 

Then,  when  Fair-time  came,  people  began  to  mutter 
"  no  more  Fair."  It  was  as  hard  to  imagine  Boarzell 
without  the  Fair  as  without  its  plume  of  firs.  The 
Squire  gave  out  his  intention  of  tolerating  the  Fair,  as 
long  as  it  did  not  straggle  from  the  crest.  But  this  failed 
to  soothe  the  indignant  and  sore,  for  it  was  humbling  to 
have  the  Fair  as  a  matter  of  toleration.  Also  at  that 
time  there  was  talk  of  fences.  All  the  Moor  had  been 
mapped  out,  the  claims  considered,  the  road  repaired, 
and  now  nothing  more  was  to  be  done  except  to  put  up 
the  fences  which  would  definitely  seal  Boarzell  as 
Flightshot's  own. 

There  was  naturally  a  party  who  championed  Manor 
rights — Sir  John  Bardon  was  a  good  landlord,  and  would 
have  been  better  had  his  budget  cramped  him  less.  Now 
he  would  sell  Boarzell  in  building  plots,  and  his  tenants 
would  reap  the  benefit.  He  had  not  inclosed  the  land 
for  himself.  More  houses  would  mean  more  trade  for 
shops  and  farms,  Peasmarsh  might  flower  into  a  country 
town.  .  .  . 

But  the  majority  was  anti-Bardon.  There  were 
grumblings  about  allotments,  especially  from  copy- 
holders. The  commissioners  had  been  off-hand  in  their 


SUSSEX    GORSE 

,tment  of  claims,  ignoring  everyone  except  free- 
.olders,  of  whom  there  were  only  two. 

"  They  say  as  how  Realfs  not  done  badly  fur  himself 
at  Grandturzel,"  said  old  Vennal  of  Burntbarns ;  "  forty 
acres  they  gave  him,  and  all  bush  and  timber  rights." 

"  And  what  about  Odiam  ?  "  asked  Ticehurst  of  Hole. 
"  I  haven't  seen  Backfield  these  three  weeks,  but  there's 
a  tale  going  raound  as  how  the  commissioners  have  bin 
tedious  sharp,  and  done  him  out  of  everything  he  hoped 
to  get — surelye  !  " 

"  And  him  freehold  !  " 

"  Sixty  acres." 

"  How  did  they  do  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  just  a  tale  that's  going  raound — says  they 
found  some  lawyer's  mess  in  his  title-deed.  His  father 
never  thought  of  common  rights  when  he  bought  the 
land,  and  it  seems  as  how  they  must  be  written  down 
just  lik  anything  else.  .  .  .  But  there's  young  Ben 
Backfield  talking  to  Coalbran.  He'll  tell  us,  I  reckon." 

They  went  over  to  a  man  and  a  lad,  standing  together 
by  the  gingerbread  stall. 

"  We  was  wondering  wot  yer  faather  had  got  out  o' 
them  commissioners,  Ben,"  said  Ticehurst. 

Reuben  Backfield  scowled.  His  thick  black  brows 
scowled  easily,  but  the  expression  of  his  face  was  open 
and  cheerful,  would  have  been  kindly  even,  were  it  not 
for  a  certain  ruthlessness  of  the  lips.  There  was  more 
character  in  his  face  than  is  usual  with  a  boy  of  fifteen — 
otherwise  he  looked  younger  than  his  age,  for  though 
tall  and  well-knit,  his  limbs  had  all  the  graceful  im- 
maturity and  supple  clumsiness  one  sees  in  the  limbs  of 
calves  and  foals. 

"  Faather  aun't  got  naun — haven't  you  heard  ?  He 
made  his  claim,  and  then  they  asked  to  see  the  title- 
deeds,  and  it  turned  out  as  how  he  hadn't  got  no  common 
rights  at  all — leastways  so  the  lawyers  said." 

"  But  he  used  to  sen4  the  cows  on,  didn'tJ^  ?  " 


PROLOGUE— THE  CHALLENGE    5 

"  Yes — now  and  agaun — didn't  know  it  wurn't  right. 
Seems  it  'ud  have  been  better  if  he'd  sent  'em  oftener ; 
there's  no  understanding  that  lawyer  rubbidge.  Now  he 
mayn't  taake  so  much  as  a  blade  of  grass." 

"  Realf  of  Grandturzel  has  got  his  bit  all  safe." 

Reuben  spat. 

"  Yes — they  couldn't  pick  any  holes  in  his  claim,  or 
they  would  have,  I  reckon.  The  Squire  'ud  like  every 
rood  of  Boarzell,  though  the  Lard  knows  wot  he'll  do 
wud  it  now  he's  got  it." 

"  Your  faather  must  be  in  lamentable  heart  about  all 
this,  surelye." 

The  boy  shrugged  and  frowned. 

"  He  doan't  care  much.  Faather,  he  likes  to  be 
comfortable,  and  this  Inclosure  woan't  make  much 
difference  to  that.  'Taun't  as  if  we  wanted  the  pasture 
badly,  and  Faather  he  doan't  care  about  land." 

H«e  dragged  the  last  word  a  little  slowly,  and  there  was 
the  faintest  hint  of  a  catch  in  his  voice. 

"  And  your  mother,  and  Harry  ?  " 

"  They  doan't  care,  nuther — it's  only  me." 

"  Lard,  boy  ! — and  why  should  you  care  if  they 
doan't  ?  " 

Reuben  did  not  speak,  but  a  dull  red  crept 
over  the  swarthirtess  of  his  cheeks,  and  he  turned 
away. 

He  walked  slowly,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  to  where 
the  gable  of  the  booth  jutted  between  him  and  his 
questioners.  From  here  he  could  see  the  slope  of 
Boarzell,  rolling  slowly  down  to  some  red  roofs  and 
poplars.  These  roofs  and  poplars  were  Odiam,  the  farm 
which  his  grandfather  had  bought,  which  his  father  had 
tilled  and  fattened  .  .  .  and  now  it  was  humbled, 
robbed  of  its  rights — and  his  father  still  went  whistling 
to  the  barn,  because,  though  fifty  acres  had  been  with- 
held from  him  by  a  quibble,  he  still  had  a  bright  fire, 
with  a  pretty  wife  and  healthy  boys  beside  'it. 


I 


6  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Reuben's  lip  curled.  He  could  not  help  despising 
his  father  for  this  ambitionless  content. 

"  We're  no  worser  off  than  we  wur  before/'  Joseph 
Backfield  had  said  a  day  or  two  ago  to  his  complaining 
boy- — "  we've  our  own  meadows  for  the  cows — 'taun't 
as  if  we  were  poor  people." 

"  But,  faather,  think  wot  we  might  have  had — forty 
acres  inclosed  for  us,  like  they  have  at  Grandturzel." 

"  '  Might  have — might  have  '• — that  doan't  trouble 
me.  It's  wot  I've  got  I  think  about.  And  then,  say  we 
had  it — wot  'ud  you  maake  out  o'  Boarzell  ? — nasty 
mess  o'  marl  and  shards,  no  good  to  anyone  as  long  as 
thistles  aun't  fashionable  eating/' 

"  /  cud  maake  something  out  of  Boarzell/' 

At  this  his  father  burst  into  a  huge  fit  of  laughter,  and 
Reuben  walked  away. 

But  he  knew  he  could  do  it.  That  morning  he  churned 
the  soil  with  his  heel,  and  knew  he  could  conquer  it.  ... 
He  could  plant  those  thistle-grounds  with  wheat.  .  .  . 
Coward  !  his  father  was  a  coward  if  he  shrank  from 
fighting  Boarzell.  The  land  could  be  tamed  just  as 
young  bulls  could  be  tamed.  By  craft,  by  strength,  by 
toughness  man  could  fight  the  nature  of  a  waste  as  well 
as  of  a  beast.  Give  him  Boarzell,  and  he  would  have 
his  spade  in  its  red  back,  just  as  he  would  have  his  ring 
in  a  bull's  nose.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  all  hopeless.  Most  likely  in  future  all  that 
would  remain  free  to  him  of  Boarzell  would  be  this  Fair 
•ound,  crowded  once  a  year.  The  rest  would  be  built 
— fat  shop-keepers  would  grow  fatter — oh,  durn  it ! 
<  He  dashed,  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  then  swung 
round,  turning  back  towards  the  groups,  lest  he  should 
become  weak  in  solitude*  Somehow  the  character  of  the 
crowd  ha&  changed  while  he  had  been  away.  Angry 
murmurs  surged  through  it  like  waves,  curses  beat 
against  one  another,  a  rumour  ble^w  like  foam  from 
mouth  to  mouth. 


PROLOGUE— THE  CHALLENGE    7 

"  They're  putting  up  the  fences — workmen  from 
Tonbridge — fences  down  by  Socknersh." 

"  Drat  'em  !   durn  'em  !  " 

"  And  why  shudn't  there  be  fences  ?  What  good  did 
this  old  rubbidge-plaace  ever  do  anyone  ?  Scarce  a 
mouthful  fur  a  goat.  Now  it'll  be  built  on,  and  there'll 
be  money  fur  everybody." 

"  Money  fur  Bardon." 

"  Money  fur  us  all.  The  Squire  aun't  no  Tory 
grabber." 

"  Then  wot  dud  he  taake  our  land  fur  ?  " 

"  Wot  wur  the  use  of  it  ? — save  fur  such  as  wanted  a 
quiet  plaace  fur  their  wenching." 

"  Put  up  yer  fists  !  " 

The  fight  came,  the  battering  of  each  other  by  two 
men,  seemingly  because  of  a  private  insult,  really 
because  they  were  representatives  of  two  hostile  groups, 
panting  to  be  at  each  other's  throats.  They  fought 
without  science,  staggering  up  and  down,  swinging  arms 
like  windmills,  grabbing  tufts  of  hair.  At  last  old  Buck 
Washington  the  bruiser  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and 
with  a  couple  of  clouts  flung  them  apart,  to  bump  on  the 
ground  and  sit  goggling  stupidly  at  each  other  through 
trickles  of  blood. 

That  gave  the  crowd  its  freedom — hitherto  the  con- 
flict had  been  squeezed  into  two  representatives,  leaving 
some  hundred  men  merely  limp  spectators ;  but  with 
the  collapse  of  his  proxy,  each  man  felt  the  rage  in  him 
boil  up. 

"  Come,  my  lads,  we'll  pull  down  their  hemmed 
fences  !  "  * 

"  Down  wud  the  fences  !   down  wud  Bardon  !  " 

"  Stand  by  the  Squire,  men — we'll  all  gain  by  it." 

"  Shut  the  Common  to  wenchers  !  "  + 

But  the  Anti-Inclosure  party  was  the, strongest — it 
swept  along  the  oljiers  as  it  roared  down  to  Socknersh, 
brandishing  sticks  and  stones  and  bottles  that  had  all 


8  SUSSEX    GORSE 

appeared  suddenly  out  of  nowhere,  shouting  and 
stumbling  and  rolling  and  thumping.  .  .  .  Reuben  was 
carried  with  it,  conscious  of  very  little  save  the  smell  of 
unwashed  bodies  and  the  Bursting  rage  in  his  heart. 

§2- 

The  fences  were  being  put  up  in  the  low  grounds  by 
Socknersh,  a  leasehold  farm  on  the  fringe  of  the  Manor 
estate.  The  fence-builders  were  not  local  men,  and  had 
no  idea  of  the  ill-feeling  in  the  neighbourhood.  Their 
first  glimpse  of  it  was  when  they  saw  a  noisy  black 
crowd  tilting  down  Boarzell  towards  them — nothing 
definite  could  be  gathered  from  its  yells,  for  cries  and 
counter-cries  clashed  together,  the  result  being  a  con- 
fused "  Wah-wah-wah,"  accompanied  by  much  clatter- 
ing of  sticks  and  stones,  thudding  of  feet  and  thumping 
of  ribs. 

When  it  came  within  ten  yards  of  the  fences,  it 
doubted  itself  suddenly  after  the  manner  of  crowds.  It 
stopped,  surged  back,  and  mumbled.  "  Down  with  the 
fences  !  "  shouted  someone — "  Long  live  the  Squire  !  " 
shouted  someone  else.  Then  there  was  a  pause,  almost 
a  silence. 

Suddenly  a  great  hullish  lad  sprang  forward,  rushed 
up  to  one  of  the  fence-stakes,  and  flung  it  with  a  tangle 
of  wire  into  the  air. 

"  Down  wud  Bardon  !  " 

The  spell  of  doubt  was  broken.  A  dozen  others  sprang 
towards  the  palings,  a  dozen  more  were  after  them  to 
smite.  The  workmen  swung  their  tools.  The  fight  began. 

It  was  a  real  battle  with  defences  and  sallies.  The 
supporters  of  the  Inclosure  miraculously  knotted 
together,  and  formed  a  guard  for  the  labourers,  who 
with  hammers  ready  alternately  for  nail  or  head,  bent 
to  their  work.  They  had  no  personal  concern  in  the 
matter,  but  they  resented  being  meddled  with. 

The  Squire's  party  was  much  the  weakest  in  numbers, 


PROLOGUE— THE  CHALLENGE 

but  luck  had  given  it  the  best  weapons  of  that  chance 
armament.  Alee  of  Ellen whorne  had  a  fine  knobbed 
stick,  worth  a  dozen  of  the  enemy^s,  while  Lewnes  of 
Coldblow  had  an  excellent!}^  broken  bottle.  Young 
Elphee  had  been  through  the  bruiser-mill,  and  routed 
his  assailants  with  successive  upper-cuts.  The  anti- 
Bardonites,  on  the  other  hand,  were  inclined  to  waste 
their  strength ;  they  fought  in  a  congested,  rabblesome 
way;  also  they  threw  their  bottles,  not  realising  that  a 
bottle  is  miach  better  as  a  club  than  a  missile.  The 
result  was  that  quite  early  in  the  conflict  their  ammu- 
nition gave  out,  and  they  were  reduced  to  sticks  and 
fists. 

This  made  the  two  parties  fairly  equal,  and  the  tide  of 
battle  ebbed  and  flowed.  Now  a  bit  of  fence  was  put  up, 
then  it  was  torn  down  again ;  now  it  looked  as  if  the 
fence-builders  were  going  to  be  swept  off  the  Moor,  then 
it  looked  as  if  their  posts  were  going  to  straggle  up  to 
Totease. 

The  Fair  was  quite  deserted,  the  tenants  of  Socknersh 
and  Totease  climbed  to  their  windows.  Someone 
fetched  the  constable  from  Peasmarsh,  but  after 
surveying  the  battlefield  from  a  distance  he  strategi- 
cally retired.  At  Flightshot  Manor  the  Squire  was 
troubled.  The  Inclosure  of  Boarzell  had  been  no  piece 
of  land-grabbing  on  his  part,  but  a  move  for  the  good  of 
his  estate.  He  had  always  wanted  to  improve  his 
tenants'  condition,  but  had  been  thwarted  by  lack 
of  means.  He  wondered  if  he  ought  to  give  orders  to  stop 
the  fence-building. 

"  Sir,  that  would  be  folly  !  "  cried  his  son. 

"  But  it  seems  that  there's  a  regular  riot  going  on — 
quite  a  number  of  people  have  been  hurt,  and  two 
ploughlands  trodden  up.  Kadwell  went  over,  but  says 
he  can  do  nothing." 

"  Send  to  Rye,  then.  Let  'eki  swear  in  some  special 
constables,  and  drive  the  fellows  off.  But  as  for 


10  SUSSEX   GORSE 

stopping  the  work — that  would  be  to  play  into  their 
hands." 

So  the  fight  raged  on,  the  Battle  of  Boarzell.  Un- 
fortunately it  did  not  rage  on  Boarzell  itself,  but  on  its 
fruitful  fringe,  where  the  great  ploughfields  lapped  up 
to  the  base  of  the  Moor,  taking  the  sunset  on  their  wet 
brown  ridges.  Poor  Ginner's  winter  wheat  was  all 
pulped  and  churned  to  ruin,  and  the  same  doom  fell  on 
Ditch's  roots.  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  the  Squire's 
men  would  attain  their  object,  for  the  fence — very 
tottery  and  uncertain,  it  must  be  confessed — had  wound 
a  bit  of  the  way  past  Totease  towards  Odiam.  Dusk  had 
fallen,  but  the  men  still  worked,  for  their  blood  was  up. 

However,  the  Squire's  party  began  to  feel  their  lack  of 
numbers  ;  they  were  growing  tired,  their  arms  swung 
less  confidently,  and  then  Lewnes'  bottle  was  broken 
right  up  at  the  neck,  cutting  his  hand.  He  shouted  that 
he  was  bleeding  to  death,  and  frightened  the  others. 
Someone  sent  a  stone  into  Alce's  eye.  Then  he  too 
made  a  terrible  fuss,  threw  down  his  stick,  and  ran 
about  bleeding  among  the  workmen. 

The  ground,  soft  with  autumn  rains,  was  now  one 
great  mud  broth,  and  the  men  were  daubed  and  spattered 
with  it  even  to  their  hair.  The  attackers  pressed  on  the 
wavering  ring — one  of  the  fence-builders  was  hit,  and 
pitched  down,  taking  a  post  and  a  whole  trail  of  wire 
over  with  him — about  thirty  yards  of  fence  came  down 
with  the  pull,  and  flopped  into  the  mud.  The  ring  broke. 

"  Hop  it,  lads !  "  shouted  a  workman.  Their  pro- 
tectors were  gone,  mixed  indescribably  with  their 
assailants.  They  must  run,  or  they  would  be  lynched. 

A  hundred  yards  off  a  Totease  barn-door  gaped,  and 
the  workmen  sprinted  for  it.  In  the  darkness  they  were 
able  to  reach  it  without  losing  more  than  one  of  their 
number,  who  fell  down  and  had  the  wit  to  pretend  to  be 
dead.  The  crowd  seethed  after  them,  but  the  door  was 
shut,  and  the  heavy  bolts  rattled  behind  it. 


PROLOGUE— THE  CHALLENGE    11 

The  barn  was  part  of  the  farmhouse,  and  from  one  of 
the  upper  windows  Ditch,  furious  at  having  his  roots 
messed  up,  made  pantomime  to  the  effect  that  he  would 
shoot  any  man  who  came  further  than  the  yard. 

It  was  then  for  the  first  time  that  Reuben  was 
frightened.  Hitherto  there  had  been  too  much  violence 
and  confusion  for  him  to  feel  intensely,  even  rage.  He 
had  thrown  stones,  and  had  once  been  hit  by  a  stone — 
a  funny  dull  sore  pain  on  his  shoulder,  and  then  the 
feeling  of  something  sticky  under  his  shirt.  But  he 
had  never  felt  afraid,  never  taken  any  initiative,  just 
run  and  struggled  and  shouted  with  the  rest.  Now  he 
was  frightened — it  would  be  dreadful  if  the  farmer  fired 
into  that  thick  sweating  mass  in  the  midst  of  which  he 
was  jammed. 

Then,  just  because  he  was  afraid,  he  flung  up  his  arm, 
and  the  stone  he  had  been  grasping  crashed  into  Ditch's 
window,  sending  the  splintering  glass  into  the  room.  He 
had  no  thought  of  doing  it,  scarcely  knew  he  had  done 
it — it  was  just  because  he  was  horribly  frightened. 

The  next  moment  there  was  a  bang,  and  Ditch's  gun 
scattered  duck-shot  into  the  crowd.  Men  yelled,  fought, 
struggled,  stumbled  about  with  their  arms  over  their 
faces.  For  a  moment  nothing  but  panic  moved  them, 
but  the  next  rage  took  its  place.  A  volley  of  stones 
answered  the  gun,  which  being  an  old  one  and  requiring 
careful  loading,  could  not  be  brought  into  action  again 
for  some  minutes. 

"  Burn  him  down  ! — Burn  him  down  ! — the  hemmed 
murderer  !  " 

Then  began  a  regular  siege.  Stones  showered  upon 
the  farmhouse  roof,  the  shiver  of  broken  glass  tinkled 
through  the  dull  roar  of  the  attackers,  groans  and 
screams  answered  the  bursting  bang  of  the  shot-gun. 
Men  began  to  seize  faggots  from  the  wood-pile,  and  run 
with  them  towards  the  house.  Then  some  tore  up  a 
haystack,  but  the  wind  caught  the  hay  and  blew  it 


12  SUSSEX    GORSE 

everywhere,  flinging  swathes  and  streamers  of  it  into 
the  rioters'  faces,  giving  them  sudden  armfuls  of  it, 
making  their  noses  and  eyes  smart  with  the  dust  and 
litter. 

It  was  quite  dark  now.  The  hulk  of  Boarzell  loomed 
black  behind  the  struggle,  its  fir  crown  standing  out 
against  a  great  wall  of  starless  sky.  Then  suddenly 
something  began  to  blaze — no  one  seemed  to  know  what, 
for  it  was  behind  the  crowd  ;  but  it  roared  and  crackled, 
and  sparks  and  great  burning  strands  flew  out  from  it, 
threatening  house  and  besiegers  alike  with  destruction. 

They  had  piled  the  faggots  against  the  door  of  the 
barn.  The  workmen  inside  were  tumbling  about  in  the 
dark,  half  ignorant  of  what  was  going  on. 

"  Bring  a  light !  "  called  someone.  A  boy  dashed  up 
with  a  handful  of  flaming  straw — it  blew  out  of  his  hand 
and  flared  away  over  the  roof,  scattering  showers  of 
sparks.  A  man  yelled  out  that  his  shirt  was  burning. 
"  Bring  a  light !  "  someone  called  again.  Then  someone 
else  shouted — "  The  constables  from  Rye  !  " 

The  crowd  ebbed  back  like  a  wave,  carrying  Reuben, 
now  screaming  and  terrified,  towards  where  some- 
thing unknown  burned  with  horrible  crackles  and 
roaring. 

11  The  constables  from  Rye  !  " 

The  crowd  was  like  a  boa-constrictor,  it  seemed  to 
fold  itself  round  him,  smashing  his  ribs.  He  screamed, 
half  suffocated.  His  forehead  was  blistered  with  heat. 
Again  the  crowd  constricted.  A  dizziness  came  this 
time  with  the  suffocation,  and  strange  to  say,  as 
consciousness  was  squeezed  out  of  him  like  wind  out  of 
a  bellows,  he  had  one  last  visit  of  that  furious  hate  which 
had  made  him  join  the  battle — hate  of  those  who  had 
robbed  his  father  of  Boarzell,  and  hate  of  Boarzell 
itself,  because  he  would  never  be  able  to  tame  it  as  one 
tames  a  bull  with  a  ring  in  its  nose. 

He  choked,  and  fell  into  the  darkness. 


PROLOGUE— THE  CHALLENGE    18 

§3- 

His  first  sensation  on  returning  to  consciousness  was 
of  being  jolted.  It  was,  like  most  half-realised  experi- 
ences, on  the  boundary  line  between  sensation  and 
emotion,  an  affair  almost  of  the  heart.  Then  gradually 
it  became  more  physical,  the  heart-pain  separated 
itself  from  the  body-pain.  His  body  was  being  jolted, 
his  heart  was  just  sick  with  the  dregs  of  hate. 

Then  he  saw  Orion  hanging  over  him,  very  low  in  the 
windy  sky,  shaking  with  frost.  His  eyes  fixed  them- 
selves on  the  constellation,  then  gradually  he  became 
aware  of  the  sides  of  a  cart,  of  the  smell  of  straw,  of  the 
movement  of  other  bodies  that  sighed  and  stirred 
beside  him.  The  physical  experience  was  now  complete, 
and  soon  the  emotional  had  shaped  itself.  Memory 
came,  rather  sick.  He  remembered  the  fight,  his  terror, 
the  flaming  straw,  the  crowd  that  constricted  and 
crushed  him  like  a  snake.  His  rage  and  hate  rekindled, 
but  this  time  without  focus — he  hated  just  everyone 
and  everything.  He  hated  the  wheels  which  jolted  him, 
his  body  because  it  was  bruised,  the  other  bodies  round 
him,  the  stars  that  danced  above  him,  those  unknown 
footsteps  that  tramped  beside  him  on  the  road. 

Where  was  he  ?  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and 
immediately  a  head  looked  over  the  side  of  the  cart. 

"  Wot's  the  matter  wud  you  ?  "  asked  a  gruff  voice. 

"  I  want  to  know  where  I'm  going,  surely e." 

"  You're  going  to  Rye,  that's  where  you're  going,  just 
fur  a  taaste  of  the  rope's  end,  you  young  varmint." 

The  tones  were  not  unkindly, "and  Reuben  plucked  up 
courage. 

"  Is  the  fight  over  ?  " 

"  Surelye  !  It  all  fizzled  out,  soon  as  them  beasts  saw 
the  constables.  Fifty  speshul  constables  sworn  in  at 
Rye  Town  Hall,  all  of  'em  wud  truncheons  !  You 
couldn't  expect  any  rabble-scrabble  to  face  'em." 


14  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Reckon  that  lot  had  justabout  crunched  me  up. 
I  feel  all  stove  in." 

"  And  you'll  feel  stove  in  furder  when  the  Crier's  done 
wud  you." 

It  was  part  of  the  Rye  Town  Crier's  duties  to  flog  the 
unruly  youth  of  the  district.  Reuben  made  a  face — 
not  that  he  minded  being  flogged,  but  he  felt  badly 
bruised  already.  He  fell  back  on  the  straw,  and  buried 
his  head  in  it.  They  were  on  the  Playden  road,  near 
Bannister's  Town,  and  he  would  have  time  for  a  sleep 
before  they  came  to  Rye.  Sleep  helped  things  wonder- 
fully. 

But  the  strange  thing  was  that  he  could  not  sleep,  and 
stranger  still,  it  was  not  the  ache  of  his  body  that  kept 
him  awake,  but  the  ache  of  his  heart.  Reuben  was  used 
to  curling  up  and  going  to  sleep  like  a  little  dog ;  only 
once  had  he  lain  awake  at  night,  and  that  was  with  the 
toothache.  Now  he  had  scarcely  any  pain ;  indeed,  the 
dull  bruised  feeling  made  him  only  more  drowsy,  but  in 
his  heart  was  something  that  made  him  tumble  and  toss, 
just  as  the  aching  tooth  had  done,  made  him  want  to 
snarl  and  bite.  He  rolled  over  and  over  in  the  straw, 
and  was  wide  awake  when  they  came  to  Rye.  Neither 
did  he  sleep  at  all  in  the  room  where  he  and  some  other 
boys  were  locked  for  the  night.  The  Battery  gaol  was 
full  of  adult  rioters,  so  the  youthful  element — only  some 
half-dozen  captured — was  shut  up  in  the  constable's 
house,  where  it  played  marbles  and  twisted  arms  till 
daylight. 

The  other  boys  were  much  younger  than  Reuben,  who 
thumped  their  heads  to  let  off  some  of  his  uncomfortable 
feelings.  Indeed,  there  was  talk  of  putting  him  with  the 
grown-up  prisoners,  till  the  magistrate  realised  that 
juveniles  were  more  easily  disposed  of.  The  scene  at  the 
court-house  was  so  hurried  that  he  scarcely  knew  he  had 
been  tried  till  the  constable  took  him  by  the  collar  and 
threw  him  out  of  the  dock.  Then  came  some  dreary 


PROLOGUE— THE  CHALLENGE    15 

moments  of  waiting  in  a  little  stuffy,  whitewashed  room, 
while  the  Town  Crier  dealt  with  the  victims  separately. 

Reuben  did  not  in  the  least  mind  being  flogged — it 
was  all  in  the  day's  work — and  showed  scant  sympathy 
for  those  fellow-criminals  who  cried  for  their  mothers. 
Most  of  the  cramp  and  stiffness  had  worn  off,  and  his 
only  anxiety  was  to  have  the  thing  over  quickly,  so  that 
he  could  be  home  in  time  for  supper. 

At  one  o'clock  he  was  given  some  bread  and  cheese, 
which  he  devoured  ravenously ;  then  he  spent  an  hour 
in  thinking  of  the  sausages  they  always  had  for  supper 
at  Odiam  on  Fridays.  At  two  the  constable  fetched 
him  to  his  doom  ;  he  was  grumbling  and  muttering  to 
himself,  and  on  arriving  at  the  execution  chamber  it 
turned  out  that  he  had  had  words  with  the  Town  Crier, 
because  the  latter  thought  he  had  only  six  boys  to  flog, 
so  had  put  on  his  coat  and  was  going  off  to  the  new 
sluice  at  Scott's  Float,  meaning  to  get  back  comfortably 
in  time  for  an  oyster  and  beer  supper  at  the  London 
Trader.  Having  seven  boys  to  flog  made  all  the  differ- 
ence— he  would  be  late,  both  at  the  sluice  and  the 
supper. 

He  took  off  his  coat  again,  growling,  and  for  the  first 
time  Reuben  felt  shame.  It  was  such  a  different  matter, 
this,  from  being  beaten  by  somebody  who  was  angry  with 
one  and  with  whom  one  was  angry.  He  saw  now  that 
a  beating  was  one  of  the  many  things  which  are  all  right 
as  long  as  they  are  hot,  but  damnable  when  they  are 
cold.  He  hunched  his  shoulders,  and  felt  his  ears  burn, 
and  just  the  slightest  stickiness  on  his  forehead. 

One  thing  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to — he  would  not 
struggle  or  cry.  Up  till  now  he  had  not  cared  much 
what  he  did  in  that  way  ;  if  yelling  had  relieved  his 
feelings  he  had  yelled,  and  never  felt  ashamed  of  it ;  but 
to-day  he  realised  that  if  he  yelled  he  would  be  ashamed. 
So  he  drove  his  teeth  into  his  lower  lip  and  fought 
through  the  next  few  minutes  in  silence. 


16  SUSSEX    GORSE 

He  kept  his  body  motionless,  but  in  his  heart  strange 
things  were  moving.  That  hatred  which  had  run  through 
him  like  a  knife  just  before  he  lost  consciousness  in  the 
battle  of  Boarzell,  suddenly  revived  and  stabbed  him 
again.  It  was  no  longer  without  focus,  and  it  was  no 
longer  without  purpose.  Boarzell  .  .  .  the  name  seemed 
to  dance  before  him  in  letters  of  fire  and  blood.  He  was 
suffering  for  Boarzell — his  father  had  not  been  robbed, 
for  his  father  did  not  care,  but  he,  Reuben,  had  been 
robbed — and  he  had  fought  for  Boarzell  on  Boarzell,  and 
now  he  was  bearing  shame  and  pain  for  Boarzell.  Some- 
how he  had  never  till  this  day,  till  this  moment,  been  so 
irrevocably  bound  to  the  land  he  had  played  on  as  a 
child,  on  which  he  had  driven  his  father's  cattle,  wjiich 
had  broken  with  its  crest  the  sky  he  gazed  on  from  his 
little  bed.  Boarzell  was  his,  and  at  the  same  time  he 
hated  Boarzell.  For  some  strange  reason  he  hated  it  as 
much  as  those  who  had  taken  it  from  him  and  as  those 
who  were  punishing  him  because  of  it.  He  wanted  to 
tame  it,  as  a  man  tames  a  bull,  with  a  ring  in  its  nose. 

There,  at  the  post,  quivering  with  a  pain  he  scarcely 
felt,  Reuben  swore  that  he  would  tame  and  conquer 
Boarzell.  The  rage,  the  fight,  the  degradation,  the 
hatred  of  the  last  twelve  hours  should  not  be  in  vain. 
In  some  way,  as  yet  unplanned,  Boarzell  should  one  day 
be  his — not  only  the  fifty  acres  the  commissioners  had 
tweaked  from  his  father,  but  the  whole  of  it,  even  that 
mocking,  nodding  crest  of  firs.  He  would  subdue  it ;  it 
should  bear  grain  as  meekly  as  the  most  fruitful  field ; 
it  should  feed  fat  cattle ;  it  should  make  the  name  of 
Odiam  great,  the  greatest  in  Sussex.  It  should  be  his, 
and  the  world  should  wonder. 

He  left  the  post  with  a  great  oath  in  his  heart,  and  a 
thin  trickle  of  blood  on  his  chin. 


PROLOGUE— THE  CHALLENGE    17 

§4- 

It  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  when  Reuben  set 
out  homewards,  but  he  had  a  long  way  to  go,  and  felt 
tired  and  bruised.  The  constable  had  given  him  an 
apple,  but  as  soon  as  he  had  munched  up  its  sweetness, 
life  became  once  more  grey.  The  resolve  which  for  a 
few  minutes  had  been  like  a  flame  warming  and  lighting 
his  heart,  had  now  somehow  become  just  an  ordinary 
fact  of  life,  as  drearily  a  part  of  his  being  as  his  teeth  or 
his  stomach.  One  day  he  would  own  Boarzell  Moor, 
subdue  it,  and  make  himself  great — but  meantime  his 
legs  dragged  and  his  back  was  sore. 

All  the  adventure  and  excitement  he  had  been 
through,  with  no  sleep,  and  eccentric  feeding,  combined 
to  make  him  wretched  and  cast  down.  Once  he  cried  a 
little,  crouching  low  under  the  hedge,  and  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  himself. 

However,  things  grew  better  after  a  time.  The  road 
broke  away  from  the  fields,  and  free  winds  blew  over  it. 
On  either  side  swelled  a  soft  common,  not  like  Boarzell, 
but  green  and  watery.  It  was  grown  with  bracken,  and 
Reuben  laughed  to  see  the  big  buck  rabbits  loppetting 
about,  with  a  sudden  scuttle  and  bob  when  he  clapped 
his  hands.  Then  a  nice  grinning  dog  ran  with  him  a 
mile  of  the  way,  suddenly  going  off  on  a  hunt  near 
Starvecrow.  Reuben  came  to  Odiam  aching  with 
nothing  worse  than  hunger. 

Odiam  Farm  was  on  the  northern  slope  of  Boarzell — 
sixty  acres,  mostly  grass,  with  a  sprinkling  of  hops  and 
grain.  There  was  a  fine  plum  orchard,  full  of  old 
gnarled  trees,  their  branches  trailing  with  the  weight  of 
continued  crops.  The  house  itself  was  red  and  weather- 
stung  as  an  August  pippin,  with  strange  curves  in  its 
gable-ends,  which  had  once  been  kilns.  It  was  one  of 
those  squat,  thick,  warm-tinted  houses  of  Sussex  which 
have  stood  so  long  as  to  acquire  a  kind  of  naturalisa- 


18  SUSSEX    GORSE 

tion  into  the  vegetable  kingdom — it  was  difficult  to 
imagine  it  had  ever  been  built,  it  seemed  so  obviously  a 
growth,  one  would  think  it  had  roots  in  the  soil  like  an 
oak  or  an  apple  tree. 

Reuben  opened  the  door,  and  the  welcome,  longed-for 
smell  stole  out  to  him — smothering  the  rivalry  of  a 
clump  of  chrysanthemums,  rotting  in  dew. 

"  Sossiges,"  he  whispered,  and  ran  down  the  passage 
to  the  kitchen. 

Here  the  sound  of  voices  reminded  him  that  he  might 
have  difficulties  with  his  family,  but  Reuben's  attitude 
towards  his  family,  unless  it  forced  itself  directly  into 
his  life,  was  always  a  little  aloof. 

"  Well,  lad/'  said  his  father,  "  so  you're  back  at  last." 

"  You  knew  where  I  wur  ?  " 

"  Lucky  we  dud — or  we'd  have  bin  in  tedious  heart 
about  you,  away  all  night." 

Reuben  pulled  up  his  chair  to  the  table.  His  father 
sat  at  one  end,  and  at  the  other  sat  Mrs.  Backfield  ; 
Harry  was  opposite  Reuben. 

"  If  only  you  wud  be  a  good  boy  lik  Harry,"  said  his 
mother. 

Reuben  looked  at  Harry  with  detachment.  He  was 
not  in  the  least  jealous  of  his  position  as  favourite  son, 
he  had  always  accepted  it  as  normal  and  inevitable.  His 
parents  did  not  openly  flaunt  their  preference,  and  they 
were  always  very  kind  to  Reuben — witness  the  gentle- 
ness with  which  he  was  received  to-day  after  his  escapade 
— but  one  could  not  help  seeing  that  their  attitude 
towards  the  elder  boy  was  very  different  from  what  they 
felt  for  the  younger. 

The  reasons  were  obvious  ;  Harry  was  essentially  of  a 
loving  and  dependent  nature,  whereas  Reuben  seemed 
equally  indifferent  to  caresses  or  commands.  He  was 
not  a  bad  son,  but  he  never  appeared  to  want  affection, 
and  was  always  immersed  in  dark  affairs  of  his  own. 
Besides,  Harry  was  a  beautiful  boy.  Though  only  a  year 


PROLOGUE— THE  CHALLENGE    19 

younger  than  Reuben,  in  the  midst  of  the  awkward  age, 
his  growing  limbs  quite  lacked  the  coltishness  of  his 
brother's.  He  was  like  Reuben,  but  with  all  the  little 
variations  that  make  the  difference  between  good  and 
ordinary  looks.  Just  as  he  had  Reuben's  promising 
body  without  that  transitory  uncouthness  so  natural  to 
his  years,  so  he  had  Reuben's  face,  more  softly  chiselled, 
more  expressive  and  full  of  fire.  His  brows  were  lighter, 
his  eyes  larger,  his  hair  less  shiny  and  tough,  growing  in 
a  soft  sweep  from  his  forehead,  with  the  faintest  hint  of  a 
curl  at  his  ears.  Neighbours  spoke  of  him  as  "  beautiful 
Harry."  Reuben  pondered  him  occasionally — he  would 
have  liked  to  know  his  brother  better,  liked  to  love  him, 
but  somehow  could  never  quite  manage  it.  In  spite  of 
his  clinging  nature,  there  was  something  about  Harry 
that  was  unhuman,  almost  elfin.  The  father  and  mother 
did  not  seem  to  notice  this,  but  Reuben  felt  it,  scarcely 
knowing  how  or  why. 

To-night  Harry  did  not  ask  him  any  questions,  he  just 
sat  dreamily  listening  while  Reuben  poured  out  his 
story,  with  all  the  enthusiasms  and  all  the  little  reserva- 
tions which  were  characteristic  of  him.  Once  Harry  put 
out  his  hand  and  stroked  his  mother's,  once  he  smiled 
at  his  father. 

"  Well,  I  shan't  go  scolding  you,  lad/'  said  Joseph 
Backfield,  "  fur  I  reckon  you've  bin  punished  enough. 
Though  it  wur  unaccountable  lucky  you  dudn't  git 
anything  worse.  I  hear  as  how  Fix  and  Hearsfield  are 
to  be  transported,  and  there'll  be  prison  for  some 
thirty  more.  Wot  dud  yer  want  to  go  mixing  up  in 
them  things  f ur  ?  " 

"  I  wur  just  about  mad." 

"  How,  mad  ?  " 

"  Mad  that  they  shud  shut  up  Boarzell*  and  that 
Odiam  shudn't  have  its  rights." 

"  Wot's  Odiam  to  you  ? — It  aun't  yours,  it's 
mine,  and  if  I  doan't  care  about  the  land,  why 


20  SUSSEX    GORSE 

shud  you  go  disgracing  yourself  and  us  all  because 
of  it  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  care,  surely e  !  " 

A  dull  brick-red  had  crept  into  the  brown  cheeks,  and 
Reuben's  brows  had  nearly  met  over  his  nose. 

"  Ought  to  !  Listen  to  that,  mother.  Dud  you  ever 
hear  the  like  ?  And  if  I  cared,  my  lad,  where  wud  you 
all  be  ?  Where  wud  be  that  plate  o'  sossiges  you're 
eating  ?  It's  just  because  I  aun't  a  land-grabber  lik  so 
many  I  cud  naum  that  you  and  Harry  sit  scrunching 
here  instead  of  working  the  flesh  off  your  boans,  that 
your  mother  wears  a  muslin  apron  'stead  of  a  sacking 
one,  that  you  have  good  food  to  eat,  and  white  bread, 
'stead  of  oaten.  Wot's  the  use  of  hundreds  of  acres  if 
you  aun't  comfortable  at  hoame  ?  I've  no  ambitions,  so 
I'm  a  happy  man.  I  doan't  want  nothing  I  haven't  got, 
and  so  I  haven't  got  nothing  I  doan't  want.  Surelye  !  " 

Reuben  was  silent,  his  heart  was  full  of  disgust.  Some- 
how those  delicious  sausages  stuck  in  his  throat,  but  he 
was  too  young  to  push  away  his  plate  and  refuse  to  eat 
more  of  this  token  of  his  father's  apathy  and  Odiam's 
shame.  He  ate  silently  on,  and  as  soon  as  he  had 
finished  rose  from  table,  leaving  the  room  with  a  mumble 
about  being  tired. 

When  he  was  half-way  upstairs  he  heard  his  mother 
call  him,  asking  him  if  he  would  like  her  to  bathe  his 
shoulders.  But  he  refused  her  almost  roughly,  and 
bounded  up  to  the  attic  under  the  crinkled  eaves,  which 
was  his  own,  his  sanctuary — his  land. 

It  was  odd  that  his  parents  did  not  care.  Now  he 
came  to  think  of  it,  they  did  not  seem  to  care  about 
anything  very  much,  except  Harry.  It  never  struck 
him  to  think  it  was  odd  that  he  should  care  when  they 
did  not. 

He  sat  down  by  the  window,  and  leaning  his  elbow  on 
the  sill,  looked  out.  It  was  still  windy,  and  the  sky  was 
shredded  over  with  cloud,  lit  by  the  paleness  of  a  hidden 


PROLOGUE— THE  CHALLENGE    21 

moon.  In  the  kitchen,  two  flights  below,  a  fiddle 
sounded.  It  was  Harry  playing  to  his  parents  as  he 
always  played  in  the  evening,  while  they  sat  on  either 
side  of  the  fire,  nodding,  smiling,  half-asleep.  Clods  ! 
Cowards !  A  sudden  rage  kindled  in  his  heart  against 
those  three,  his  father,  his  mother,  and  beautiful  Harry, 
who  cared  nothing  about  that  for  which  he  had  suffered 
all  things. 

The  crest  of  Boarzell  was  just  visible  against  the 
luminous  sky.  There  was  something  sinister  and 
challenging  about  those  firs.  The  gorse  round  their 
trunks  seemed  in  that  strange  half-stormy,  half-peaceful 
night  to  throw  off  a  faint  glimmer  of  gold.  The  fiddle 
wept  and  sang  into  the  darkness,  and  outside  the  window 
two  cherry  trees  scraped  their  boughs  together. 

Reuben's  head  dropped  on  his  arm,  and  he  slept  out  of 
weariness.  An  hour  later  the  cramp  of  his  shoulders 
woke  him  ;  the  fiddle  was  silent,  the  moon  was  gone, 
and  the  window  framed  a  level  blackness.  With  a  little 
moan  he  flung  himself  dressed  on  the  bed. 


BOOK   I 
THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT 


IT  was  five  years  later,  in  the  February  of  1840. 
A  winter  sunset  sparkled  like  cowslip  wine  01 
the  wet  roofs  of  Odiam.      It  slipped  between  th< 
curtains  of  the  room  where  Reuben  watched  beside  hi: 
dead  father,  and  made  a  golden  pool  in  the  dusk. 

Joseph  Backfield  had  been  dead  twelve  hours.  Hi; 
wife  had  gone,  worn  out  with  her  grief,  to  rest  on  th< 
narrow  unaccustomed  bed  which  had  been  put  up  in  th< 
next  room  when  he  grew  too  ill  to  have  her  at  his  side 
Reuben  knew  that  Harry  was  with  her  —  Harry  woulc 
be  sitting  at  her  head,  his  arm  under  the  pillow,  read} 
for  that  miserable  first  waking,  when  remembering  anc 
forgetting  would  be  fused  into  one  pain.  Reuben  knev 
that  they  did  not  need  him,  that  they  had  all  the} 
wanted  in  each  other  —  now,  as  during  the  nights  anc 
days  of  illness,  when  he  had  never  felt  as  if  he  hac 
any  real  link  with  those  three,  his  father  and  mothe] 
and  Harry. 

This  evening  he  sat  very  still  beside  the  dead.  Onl} 
once  he  drew  down  the  sheet  from  his  father's  face 
and  gazed  at  the  calm  features,  already  wearing  thai 
strange  sculpt  look  which  is  the  gift  of  death.  Th( 
peaceful  lips,  the  folded  hands,  seemed  part  of  an  em 
bracing  restfulness.  Reuben's  heart  warmed  with  £ 
love  in  which  was  little  grief.  He  thought  of  his  father's 
life  —  calm,  kindly,  comfortable,  ambitionless.  He  had 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT      23 

been  happy  ;  having  wanted  little  he  had  attained  it 
and  had  died  enjoying  it. 

Reuben  recalled  the  last  five  years — they  had  been 
fat  years.  One  by  one  small  comforts,  small  luxuries, 
had  been  added  to  the  house,  as  the  farm  throve 
modestly,  fulfilling  itself  within  the  narrow  boundaries 
its  master  had  appointed.  And  all  the  time  that 
mocking  furious  crest  of  Boarzell  had  broken  the  sky 
in  the  south — telling  of  beauty  unseized,  might  uncon- 
quered,  pride  untamed. 

So  now  was  it  strange  that  clashing  with  his  sorrow, 
and  his  regretful  love  for  one  who,  if  he  had  never  truly 
loved  him,  had  always  treated  him  with  generosity  and 
kindness,  there  should  be  a  soaring  sense  of  freedom 
and  relief  ? — a  consciousness  of  standing  on  the  edge  of 
a  boundless  plain  after  years  of  confinement  within 
walls  ?  For  Reuben  was  master  now.  Odiam  was  his 
— and  the  future  of  Odiam.  He  could  follow  his  own 
will,  he  could  take  up  that  challenge  which  Boarzell 
Moor  had  flung  him  five  years  ago,  when  he  fought  and 
was  flogged  because  he  loved  the  red  gaping  clay 
between  the  gorse-stumps. 

His  plans  of  conquest  were  more  definite  now.  He 
had  been  forming  them  for  five  years,  and  he  could  not 
deny  that  during  his  father's  illness  he  had  shaped 
them  with  a  certain  finality.  The  road  was  clear  before 
him,  and  to  a  slight  extent  fate  had  been  propitious, 
keeping  open  a  way  which  might  well  have  been 
blocked  before  he  began  to  tread  it.  Reuben  had 
never  been  able  to  settle  what  he  should  do  if  the 
Squire's  first  project  were  fulfilled  and  the  Moor  sold  in 
building  plots.  House  property  entered  with  difficulty 
into  his  imagination,  and  he  coveted  only  Boarzell 
virgin  of  tool  and  brick.  Luckily  for  him,  Bardon's 
scheme  had  completely  failed.  The  position  of  the 
common  was  bad  for  houses,  windy  and  exposed  in  days 
when  the  deepest  hollows  were  the  most  eligible  building 


24  SUSSEX    GORSE 

sites  ;  the  neighbourhood  was  both  unfashionable  and 
unfruitful,  therefore  not  likely  to  attract  either  people 
of  means  or  people  without  them.  Also  there  were 
grave  difficulties  about  a  water  supply.  So  Boarzell 
remained  desolate,  except  for  the  yearly  jostle  of  the 
Fair,  and  rumour  said  that  Bardon  would  be  only  too 
glad  to  sell  it  or  any  piece  of  it  to  whoever  would  buy. 

If  Sir  Peter  had  been  alive  he  would  probably  have 
given  the  common  back  to  the  people,  but  Sir  Miles  was 
more  far-sighted,  also  of  prouder  stuff.  Such  a  policy 
would  give  the  impression  of  weakness,  and  there  was 
always  a  chance  of  selling  the  land  piecemeal.  Reuben's 
ambition  was  to  buy  a  few  acres  at  the  end  of  that  year, 
letting  the  Squire  know  of  his  plan  to  buy  more — this 
would  encourage  him  to  keep  Boarzell  inclosed,  and 
would  act  as  a  check  on  any  weak  generosity. 

There  was  no  reason  why  this  ambition  should  not  be 
fulfilled,  for  now  that  he  himself  was  at  the  head  of 
affairs  it  would  be  possible  to  save  money.  Reuben's 
lips  straightened — of  late  they  had  grown  fuller,  but 
also  sterner  in  that  occasional  straightening,  which 
changed  the  expression  of  his  mouth  from  half-ripened 
sensuality  to  a  full  maturity  of  resolve.  Now  he  was 
resolved — there  should  be  changes  at  Odiam.  He  must 
give  up  that  old  easy,  "  comfortable  "  life  on  which  his 
father  had  set  such  store.  A  ghost  seemed  to  whisper 
in  the  room,  as  if  the  voice  of  the  dead  man  once  more 
declared  his  gospel — "  I've  no  ambitions,  so  I'm  a 
happy  man.  I  doan't  want  nothing  I  haven't  got,  and 
so  I  haven't  got  nothing  I  doan't  want." 

Yes — there  was  no  denying  his  father  had  been 
happy.  But  what  a  happiness  !  Even  there  by  his  side 
Reuben  despised  it.  He,  Reuben,  would  never  be  happy 
till  he  had  torn  up  that  gorse  and  lopped  those  firs  from 
the  top  of  Boarzell.  In  a  kind  of  vision  he  saw  the  Moor 
with  wheatfields  rolling  up  to  the  crest,  he  smelt  the 
baking  of  glumes  in  brown  sunlight,  the  dusty  savour  of 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       25 

the  harvest-laden  earth.  He  heard  the  thud  of  horses' 
hoofs  and  the  lumber  of  waggon-wheels,  the  shouts  of 
numberless  farm-hands.  That  sinister  waste,  profitless 
now  to  every  man,  should  be  a  source  of  wonder  and 
wealth  and  fame.  "  Odiam — the  biggest  farm  in 
Sussex.  Backfield  made  it.  He  bought  Boarzell  Moor 
acre  by  acre  and  fought  it  inch  by  inch,  and  now  there's 
nothing  like  it  in  the  south."  .  .  . 

He  sprang  up  and  went  to  the  window,  pulling  back 
the  curtain.  The  sun  had  gone,  and  the  sky  was  a  grey 
pool  rimmed  with  gold  and  smoke.  Boarzell,  his  dream- 
land, stood  like  a  dark  cloud  against  it,  shaggy  and 
waste.  There  in  the  dimness  it  looked  unconquerable. 
Suppose  he  should  be  able  to  wring  enough  money  from 
the  grudging  earth  to  buy  that  wilderness,  would  he 
ever  be  able  to  subdue  it,  make  it  bear  crops  ?  He 
remembered  words  from  the  Bible  which  he  had  heard 
read  in  church — "  Canst  thou  draw  out  Leviathan  with 
a  hook?  or  bore  his  jaw  through  with  a  thorn  ?  Will  he 
make  a  covenant  with  thee  ?  Wilt  thou  take  him  for  a 
servant  for  ever  ?  " 

He  brought  his  fist  down  heavily  on  the  sill.  He  was 
just  as  confident,  just  as  resolute  as  before,  but  now  for 
the  first  time  he  realised  all  that  the  battle  would  mean. 
He  could  fight  this  cruel,  tough  thing  only  by  being 
cruel  and  tough  himself.  He  must  be  ruthless  as  the 
wind  that  blustered  over  it,  hard  as  the  stones  that 
covered  it,  wiry  as  the  gorse-roots  that  twisted  in  its 
marl.  He  must  be  all  this  if  he  was  even  to  start  the 
fight.  To  begin  with,  he  would  have  to  make  his  mother 
and  Harry  accept  the  new  state  of  things.  They  must 
realise  that  the  old  soft  life  was  over,  that  they  would 
have  to  work,  pull  from  the  shoulder,  sacrifice  a  hundred 
things  to  help  fulfil  his  great  ambition.  He  must  not 
spare  them — he  must  not  spare  anyone  ;  he  would  not 
spare  them,  any  more  than  he  would  spare  himself. 


26  SUSSEX    GORSE 

§2. 

Joseph  Backfield  was  buried  four  days  later.  His  body 
was  carried  to  the  church  in  a  hay-waggon,  drawn  by  the 
meek  horses  which  had  drawn  his  plough.  Beside  it 
walked  Blackman,  the  only  farm-hand  at  Odiam,  in  a 
clean  smock,  with  a  black  ribbon  tied  to  his  hat.  Five 
men  from  other  farms  acted  with  him  as  bearers — they 
were  volunteers,  for  old  Joseph  had  been  popular  in  the 
neighbourhood,  dealing  sharply  with  no  man. 

Immediately  behind  the  cart  walked  Reuben  with  his 
mother  on  his  arm.  Her  face  was  hidden  in  a  clumsy 
black  veil,  which  the  Rye  mantua-maker  had  assured 
her  was  the  London  fashion,  and  she  was  obviously  ill  at 
ease  in  the  huge  black  shawl  and  voluminous  skirts 
which  the  same  fashion,  according  to  the  Rye  mantua- 
maker,  had  decreed.  Her  hand  pulled  at  Reuben's 
sleeve  and  stroked  it  as  if  for  comfort.  It  was  a  smallish 
hand,  and  wonderfully  soft  for  a  farmer's  wife — but 
then  Mary  Backfield  had  not  lived  like  an  ordinary 
farmer's  wife.  Under  the  thick  veil,  her  face  still  had  a 
certain  soft  colour  and  youthfulness,  though  she  was 
nearly  forty,  and  most  women  of  her  position  were 
wrinkled  and  had  lost  their  teeth  by  thirty-five.  Also 
the  curves  of  her  figure  were  still  delicate.  She  had 
been  cherished  by  her  husband,  had  done  only  light 
household  work  for  him  and  borne  him  only  two 
children.  She  carried  the  tokens  of  her  happiness  in 
smooth  surfaces  and  soft  lines. 

After  Mrs.  Backfield  and  her  eldest  son,  walked  Harry 
and  his  sweetheart,  Naomi  Gasson.  They  had  been 
sweethearts  just  three  months,  and  were  such  a  couple 
as  romance  gloats  over — young,  comely,  healthy,  and 
full  of  love.  Years  had  perfected  the  good  looks  of 
"  beautiful  Harry/'  He  was  a  tall  creature,  lithe  and 
straight  as  a  birch  tree.  His  face,  agreeably  tanned, 
glowed  with  youth,  half  dreamy,  half  riotous ;  his  eyes 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       27 

were  wild  as  a  colt's,  and  yet  tender.  Naomi  was  a  fit 
mate  for  him,  with  a  skin  like  milk,  and  hair  the  colour 
of  tansy.  She  wore  a  black  gown  like  Mrs.  Backfield, 
but  she  had  made  it  herself,  and  it  was  friendly  to 
her,  hinting  all  the  graciousness  of  her  immaturity. 
These  two  tried  to  walk  dejectedly,  and  no  doubt  there 
was  some  fresh  young  sadness  in  their  hearts,  but  every 
now  and  then  their  bodies  would  straighten  with  their 
happiness,  and  their  eyes  turn  half  afraid  from  each 
other's  because  they  could  not  help  smiling  in  spite  of  the 
drooped  lips. 

Then  came  old  Gasson,  Naomi's  father,  and  well- 
known  as  a  shipbuilder  at  Rye — for  this  was  a  good 
match  of  Harry's,  and  Reuben  hoped,  but  had  no 
reason  to  expect,  he  would  turn  it  to  Odiam's  advantage. 
After  him  walked  most  of  the  farmers  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, come  to  see  the  last  of  a  loved,  respected  friend. 
Even  Pilbeam  was  there,  from  beyond  Dallington,  and 
Oake  from  Boreham  Street.  The  Squire  himself  had 
sent  a  message  of  condolence,  though  he  had  been  unable 
to  come  to  the  funeral.  Reuben  did  not  particularly 
want  his  sympathy.  He  despised  the  Bardons  for  their 
watery  Liberalism  and  ineffectual  efforts  to  improve 
their  estates. 

It  was  about  half  a  mile  to  the  church — over  the 
hanger  of  Tidebarn  Hill.  The  morning  was  full  of  soft 
loamy  smells,  quickening  under  the  February  sun, 
which  is  so  pale  and  errant,  but  sometimes  seems  to 
have  the  power  to  make  the  earth  turn  in  its  sleep  and 
dream  of  spring.  Peasmarsh  church-tower,  squab  like 
a  toadstool,  looked  at  itself  in  the  little  spread  of  water 
at  the  foot  of  the  churchyard.  Beside  this  pool,  darkened 
with  winter  sedges,  stood  Parson  Barnaby,  the  Curate- 
in-Charge  of  Peasmarsh,  Beckley,  and  Iden.  His  boots 
under  his  surplice  were  muddy  and  spurred,  for  he  had 
just  galloped  over  from  a  wedding  at  Iden,  and  his 
sweat  dropped  on  the  book  as  he  read  "  I  know  that  my 


28  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  he  shall  stand  at  the  latter 
day  upon  the  earth/' 

Before  committing  the  body  to  the  ground,  he  said  a 
few  words  in  praise  of  the  dead  man.  He  spoke  of  his 
generosity  to  his  neighbours,  his  kindness  to  his  depen- 
dents, his  excellences  as  a  husband  and  a  father.  "  This, 
brethren,  was  indeed  a  man  after  God's  own  heart.  He 
lived  simply  and  blamelessly,  contented  with  his  lot, 
and  seeking  no  happiness  that  did  not  also  mean 
happiness  to  those  around  him.  The  call  of  the  world  " 
— by  which  Mr.  Barnaby  meant  Babylonish  Rye — 
"  fell  unheard  on  ears  attuned  to  sweet  domestic  sounds. 
Ambition  could  not  stir  him  from  the  repose  of  his 
family  circle.  Like  a  patriarch  of  old,  he  sat  in  peace 
under  his  vine  and  his  fig-tree.  .  .  ." 

Reuben  stood  motionless  at  the  graveside,  erect,  like 
a  soldier  at  attention.  People  in  the  crowd,  who 
wearied  of  the  dead  man's  virtues,  whispered  about  the 
eldest  son. 

"  Surelye  ! — he's  a  purty  feller,  is  young  Ben.  To-day 
he  looks  nearly  as  valiant  as  Harry." 

"  He's  a  stouter  man  than  his  brother." 

"  Stouter,  and  darker.  What  black  brows  he  has, 
Mus'  Piper  !  " 

"  How  straight  he  stands  !  " 

"  I  waonder  wot  he's  thinking  of." 

§3- 

Reuben  was  strangely  silent  on  the  walk  home.  His 
mother  made  one  or  two  small  remarks  which  passed 
unheeded.  She  noticed  that  his  arm,  on  which  her 
hand  lay,  was  very  tense. 

When  they  came  to  the  group  of  cottages  at  the 
Forstal,  a  girl  ran  down  the  garden  path  and  leaned 
against  the  fence.  She  was  a  pretty  brown  girl,  and  as 
they  went  by  she  smiled  at  Reuben.  But  he  did  not 
seem  to  see  her,  he  walked  steadily  on,  and  she  slunk 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       29 

back  to  the  house,  biting  her  lips.    "  Dudn't  he  see  me, 
or  wur  he  jest  pretending  not  to  ?  "  she  muttered 

At  Odiam  dinner  was  waiting.  It  was  a  generous 
meal,  which  combined  the  good  things  of  this  world 
with  the  right  amount  of  funereal  state.  Several  of  the 
neighbours  had  been  invited,  and  the  housewife  wished 
to  do  them  honour,  knowing  that  her  table  boasted 
luxuries  not  to  be  found  at  other  farms — a  bottle  of 
French  wine,  for  instance,  which  though  nobody  touched 
it,  gave  distinction  to  the  prevalent  ale,  and  one  or  two 
light  puddings,  appealing  to  the  eye  as  well  as  to  the 
palate.  As  soon  as  the  meal  was  over  and  the  guests 
had  gone,  Reuben  took  himself  off,  and  did  not  reappear 
till  supper-time. 

During  dinner  he  had  been  even  more  thoughtful  than 
the  occasion  warranted,  leaving  his  mother  and  Harry 
to  talk  to  the  company,  though  he  had  taken  with  a 
certain  dignity  his  place  as  host  and  head  of  the  house. 
Now  at  supper  he  was  still  inclined  to  silence.  A  servant 
girl  laid  the  dishes  on  the  table,  then  retired.  Mrs. 
Backfield  and  Harry  spoke  in  low  tones  to  each  other. 

.  .  .  "  Mother,  how  much  did  this  chocolate  cost  wot 
we're  drinking  ?  "  Reuben's  voice  made  them  both 
jump. 

"  How  much  ?  why,  two  shillings  a  pound,"  said  Mrs. 
Backfield,  rather  surprised. 

"  That's  too  much."  Reuben's  brows  and  mouth 
were  straight  lines. 

"  Wot  d'you  mean,  Reuben  ?  " 

"  Why,  two  shillings  is  too  much  fur  farm-folks  lik 
us  to  give  fur  a  pound  of  chocolate.  It's  naun  but  a 
treat,  and  we  can  do  wudout  it." 

"  But  we've  bin  drinking  chocolate  fur  a  dunnamany 
years  now — your  poor  faather  always  liked  it — and  I 
doan't  see  why  we  should  stop  it." 

"  Look'ee,  mother,  I've  something  to  tell  you.  I've  a 
plan  in  my  head,  and  it'll  justabout  mean  being  shut  of 


30  SUSSEX    GORSE 

a  lot  of  things  besides  chocolate.  I  know  faather  dudn't 
care  much  about  the  farm,  about  maaking  it  grow  and 
buying  more  land,  and  all  that.  But  I  do.  I  mean  to 
buy  the  whole  of  Boarzell." 

There  was  a  gasping  silence. 

"  The  whole  of  Boarzell,"  repeated  Reuben. 

He  might  have  said  the  whole  world,  to  judge  by  his 
mother's  and  Harry's  faces. 

"  Yes — I  mean  every  bit,  even  the  bit  Grandturzel's 
got  now.  Squire  he  woan't  be  sorry  to  sell  it,  and  I 
mean  to  buy  it  piece  by  piece.  I'll  buy  my  first  piece  at 
the  end  of  this  year.  We  must  start  saving  money  at 
wunst.  But  I  can't  do  naun  wudout  you  help  me,  you 
two." 

"  Wot  d'you  want  to  go  buying  Boarzell  f ur  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Backfield  in  a  bewildered  voice;  "the  farm's 
praaper  as  it  is — we  doan't  want  it  no  bigger." 

"  And  Boarzell's  wicked  tedious  stuff,"  put  in  Harry; 
"  naun'll  grow  there  but  gorse." 

"  I'll  have  a  good  grain  growing  there  in  five  year — 
doan't  you  go  doubting  it.  The  ground  wants  working, 
that's  all.  And  as  fur  not  wanting  the  farm  no  bigger, 
that  wur  faather's  idea — Odiam's  mine  now." 

"  Why  can't  we  jest  go  on  being  happy  and  comfort- 
able, lik  we  wur  before  ?  " 

"  Because  I've  thought  of  something  much  grander, 
surelye.  I'm  going  to  maake  us  all  gurt  people,  and  this 
a  gurt  farm.  But  you've  got  to  help  me,  you  and 
Harry." 

"  Wot  d'you  want  us  to  do  ?  " 

"  Well,  first  of  all,  we  must  save  all  the  money  we  can, 
and  not  go  drinking  chocolate  and  French  wine,  and 
eating  sweet  puddens  and  all  such  dentical  stuff.  And 
then,  Harry  and  me,  we're  valiant  chaps,  and  there 
never  wur  enough  work  for  us  to  do.  I'm  going  to  send 
Blackman  away — Harry  and  I  can  do  quite  easily 
wudout  him  and  save  his  wages." 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       31 

"  Send  away  Blackman  ! — oh,  Ben,  he's  bin  with  us 
fifteen  year." 

"  I  doan't  care  if  he's  bin  a  hunderd.  There  aun't 
enough  work  for  three  men  on  this  farm,  and  it's  a 
shame  to  go  wasting  ten  shilling  a  week.  Oh,  mother, 
can't  you  see  how  glorious  it'll  be  ?  I  know  faather 
wanted  different,  but  I've  bin  thinking  and  dreaming 
of  this  fur  years." 

"  You  always  wur  queer  about  Boarzell.  But  your 
faather  'ud  turn  in  his  grave  to  think  of  you  sending  off 
Blackman." 

"  He'll  easily  git  another  plaace — I'll  find  him  one 
myself.  And,  mother — there's  something  more.  Now 
you  haven't  got  faather  to  work  fur,  you'll  find  the 
time  unaccountable  long.  Wot  if  you  let  Becky  go,  and 
did  the  cooking  and  that  yourself  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Reuben  .  .  ." 

"  You  shouldn't  ought  to  ask  mother  that,"  said 
Harry.  "  She  aun't  used  to  work.  It's  well  enough  fur 
you  and  me,  we're  strong  chaps,  and  there's  no  reason 
we  shouldn't  pull  to  a  bit.  But  mother,  she'd  never  do 
wudout  the  girl — you  see,  there's  the  dairy  and  the  fowls 
as  well  as  the  house." 

"  We  could  help  her  out  of  doors." 

"  Lard  ! — you  want  some  work  !  " 

Reuben  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Yes — I  do  !  You're 
justabout  right  there.  I'm  starved  fur  work.  I've 
never  really  worked  in  my  life,  and  now  I  want  to  work 
till  I  drop.  Look  at  my  arm  " — and  he  showed  them 
his  brown  hairy  arm,  where  the  muscles  swelled  in 
lumps  under  the  skin — "  that's  a  workman's  arm,  and 
it's  never  worked  yet — praaperly.  You  let  me  send  off 
Blackman  and  Becky,  and  see  how  we  manage  wudout 
'em.  I'll  do  most  of  the  work  myself,  I  promise  you. 
I  couldn't  have  too  much." 

"  You're  a  queer  lad,  Reuben — and  more  masterful 
than  your  poor  faather  wur." 


32  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"Yes — I'm  master  here."  He  sat  down,  and  looked 
round  the  table  quite  calmly.  A  vague  uneasiness 
disturbed  Mrs.  Backfield  and  Harry.  For  some  un- 
fathomable reason  they  both  felt  a  little  afraid  of 
Reuben. 

He  finished  his  supper  and  went  out  of  the  kitchen. 
Harry  and  his  mother  sat  for  a  moment  or  two  in  silence. 

"  He  always  wur  queer  about  Boarzell,"  said  Mrs. 
Backfield  at  last ;  "  you  remember  that  time  years  ago 
when  he  got  mixed  up  wud  the  riot  ?  I  said  to  his 
f  aather  then  as  I  was  sure  Ben  'ud  want  to  do  something 
crazy  wud  the  farm.  But  I  never  thought  he'd  so  soon 
be  maaster,"  and  a  tear  trickled  over  her  smooth  cheek. 

"  I  doan't  see  no  harm  in  his  buying  a  bit  of  Boarzell 
if  it's  going  cheap — but  it  aun't  worth  maaking  all  our- 
selves uncomfortable  for  it." 

"  No.  Howsumdever,  we  can't  stand  agaunst  him — 
the  plaace  is  his'n,  and  he  can  do  wot  he  likes." 

"  Hush — listen  !  "  said  Harry. 

The  sound  of  voices  came  from  the  passage  outside 
the  kitchen.  Reuben  was  talking  to  the  girl.  A  word 
or  two  reached  them. 

"  Durn  !  if  he  aun't  getting  shut  of  her  !  " 

"  I  never  said  as  I'd  do  her  work." 

Harry  sprang  to  his  feet,  but  his  mother  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm. 

"  Doan't  you  go  vrothering  him,  lad.  It'll  only  set 
him  agaunst  you,  and  I  doan't  care,  not  really  ;  there'll 
be  unaccountable  liddle  work  to  do  in  the  house  now 
your  poor  faather's  gone,  and  Blackman  woan't  be 
eating  wud  us.  Besides,  as  he  said,  I'll  find  the  days  a 
bit  slow  wud  naun  to  occupy  me." 

"  But  it's  sass  of  him  to  go  sending  off  the  girl  wudout 
your  leave." 

"  He's  maaster  here." 

"  Ho  !  we  shall  see  that." 

"  Now  you're  not  to  go  quarrelling  wud  him,  Harry. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       33 

I'd  sooner  have  peace  than  anything  whatsumdever. 
I  aun't  used  to  being  set  agaunst  people.  Besides,  it 
woan't  be  fur  long." 

"  No — you're  justabout  right  there.  I  ought  to  be 
able  to  wed  Naomi  next  April  year,  and  then,  mother — 
think  of  the  dear  liddle  house  we  shall  live  in,  you  and 
she  and  I,  all  wud  our  own  fields  and  garn,  and  no 
trouble,  and  Ben  carrying  through  his  own  silly  consarns 
here  by  himself." 

"  Yes,  dearie,  I  know,  and  it's  unaccountable  good  of 
you  and  Naomi  to  let  me  come  wud  you.  I  doan't 
think  we  should  ought  to  mind  helping  your  brother  a 
bit  here,  when  we've  all  that  to  look  forrard  to.  But 
he's  a  strange  lad,  and  your  faather  'ud  turn  in  his  grave 
to  see  him." 

§4. 

For  the  next  few  months  Odiam  was  in  a  transitional 
state.  It  was  gradually  being  divested  of  its  old  com- 
fortable ways,  and  clad  in  new  garments  of  endeavour. 
Gradually  the  life  grew  harder,  and  gradually  the  tense 
thought,  the  knife-edged  ambition  at  the  back  of  all  the 
changes,  came  forward  and  asserted  themselves  openly. 

Harry  and  his  mother  had  not  realised  till  then  how 
hard  Reuben  could  be.  Hitherto  they  had  never  truly 
known  him,  for  he  had  hidden  in  himself  his  dominant 
passion.  But  now  it  was  nakedly  displayed,  and  they 
began  to  glimpse  his  iron  and  steel  through  the  elusive 
nebulousness  that  had  veiled  them — as  one  might  see 
the  body  of  a  steam-engine  emerge  through  the  clouds 
of  draping  smoke  its  activity  has  flung  round  it. 

They  could  not  help  wondering  at  his  strenuousness, 
his  unlimited  capacity  for  work,  though  they  failed  to 
understand  or  sympathise  with  the  object  that  inspired 
them.  Blackman,  grumbling  and  perplexed,  had  gone 
off  early  in  March  to  the  milder  energies  of  Raisins 
Farm ;  Becky,  for  want  of  a  place,  had  married  the 
drover  at  Kitchenhour — and  it  was  no  empty  boast  of 

D 


34  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Reuben's  that  he  would  take  the  greater  part  of  their 
work  on  his  own  shoulders.  From  half-past  four  in  the 
morning  till  nine  at  night  he  laboured  almost  without 
rest.  He  drove  the  cows  to  pasture,  milked  them,  and 
stalled  them — he  followed  the  plough  over  the  spring- 
sown  crops,  he  groomed  and  watered  the  horses,  he  fed 
the  fowls,  watched  the  clutches,  fattened  capons  for 
market — he  cleaned  the  pigsty,  and  even  built  a  new 
one  in  a  couple  of  strenuous  days — he  bent  his  back 
over  his  spade  among  the  roots,  over  his  barrow, 
wheeling  loads  of  manure — he  was  like  a  man  who  has 
been  starved  and  at  last  finds  a  square  meal  before  him. 
He  had  all  the  true  workman's  rewards — the  heart- 
easing  ache  of  tired  muscles,  the  good  bath  of  sweat  in 
the  sun's  heat,  the  delicious  sprawl,  every  sinew  limp 
and  throbbing,  in  his  bed  at  nights — and  then  sleep, 
dreamless,  healing,  making  new. 

But  though  Reuben  bore  the  brunt  of  the  new  enter- 
prise, he  had  no  intention  of  sparing  others  their  part. 
All  that  he  by  any  exertions  could  do  himself  he  did,  but 
the  things  which  inevitably  he  could  not  compass, 
because  -he  had  only  two  hands,  one  back,  one  head,  and 
seven  days  a  week  to  work  in,  must  be  done  by  others. 
He  showed  himself  unexpectedly  stiff,  and  Mrs.  Back- 
field  and  Harry  found  themselves  obeying  him  as  if  he 
were  not  the  son  of  the  one  and  only  a  year  older  than 
the  other.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  custom  gave  Reuben 
authority,  in  spite  of  his  years.  He  was  the  master,  the 
eldest  son  inheriting  his  father's  lordship  with  his 
father's  farm.  Mrs.  Backfield  and  Harry  would  have 
been  censured  by  public  opinion  if  they  had  set  them- 
selves against  him. 

Besides,  what  was  the  use  ? — it  was  only  for  a  few 
months,  and  then  Harry  would  be  in  a  little  house  of 
his  own,  living  very  like  his  father,  though  more 
dreamily,  more  delicately.  Then  Mrs.  Backfield  would 
once  more  wear  muslin  aprons  instead  of  sacking  ones, 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       35 

would  sit  with  her  hands  folded,  kid  shoes  on  the  fender. 
.  .  .  Sometimes,  in  the  rare  moments  they  had  together, 
Harry  would  paint  this  wonderland  for  her. 

He  had  been  left  a  small  sum  by  his  father — result- 
ing from  the  sale  of  a  water-meadow,  and  securely 
banked  at  Rye.  Naomi,  moreover,  was  well  dowered  ; 
and  Tom  Gasson,  anxious  to  see  the  young  couple 
established,  had  promised  to  help  them  start  a  grass 
farm  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  project  had  so  far 
gone  no  further  than  discussion.  Reuben  was  opposed 
to  it — he  would  have  liked  Harry  to  stay  on  at  Odiam 
after  his  marriage  ;  Naomi,  too,  would  be  useful  in  many 
ways,  her  dowry  supplying  a  much-felt  want  of  capital. 
However,  he  realised  that  in  this  direction  his  authority 
had  its  limits.  He  was  powerless  to  prevent  Harry 
leaving  Odiam,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
wring  as  much  as  possible  out  of  him  while  he  stayed. 
Of  his  mother's  planned  escape  he  knew  nothing, 

Naomi  often  came  over  to  Odiam,  driving  in  her 
father's  gig.  Reuben  disliked  her  visits,  for  they  meant 
Harry's  abandonment  of  spade  and  rake  for  the 
weightier  matters  of  love.  Reuben,  moiling  more 
desperately  than  ever,  would  sometimes  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  coloured  gown  through  the  bushes  of  some 
coppice,  or  skirting  a  hedge  beside  Harry's  corduroy. 
He  himself  spoke  to  her  seldom.  He  could  not  help 
being  conscious  of  her  milky  sweetness,  the  soft  droop 
of  her  figure  under  its  muslins,  her  voice  full  of  the 
music  of  stock-doves.  But  he  disliked  her,  partly 
because  she  was  taking  Harry  from  Odiam,  partly 
because  he  was  jealous  of  Harry.  It  ought  to  be  he  who 
was  to  make  a  wealthy  marriage,  not  his  brother.  He 
chafed  to  think  what  Naomi's  money  might  do  for  the 
farm  if  only  he  had  control  of  it. 

Marriage  was  beginning  to  enter  into  his  scheme. 
Some  day  he  must  marry  and  beget  children.  As  the 
farm  grew  he  would  want  more  hands  to  work  it,  and 


36  SUSSEX    GORSE 

he  would  like  to  think  of  others  carrying  on  its  greatness 
after  he  was  dead.  He  must  marry  a  woman  with 
money  and  with  health,  and  he  was  not  so  dustily 
utilitarian  as  not  also  to  demand  something  of  youth 
and  good  looks. 

Since  his  father's  death  he  had  denied  himself  woman's 
company,  after  two  years  lived  in  the  throb  and  sweet- 
ness of  it.  A  warm  and  vigorous  temperament,  con- 
trolled by  a  strong  will,  had  promised  a  successful 
libertinism,  and  more  than  once  he  had  drunk  the 
extasies  of  passion  without  those  dregs  which  spoil  it 
for  the  more  weakly  dissolute.  But  now,  with  that 
same  fierce  strength  and  relentless  purpose  which  had 
driven  him  to  do  the  work  of  two  men,  to  live  hard,  and 
sleep  rough,  he  renounced  all  the  delights  which  were 
only  just  beginning.  Henceforth,  with  his  great 
ambition  before  him,  there  could  be  nothing  but 
marriage — prudent,  solid,  and  constructive.  His  girl  at 
the  Forstal  knew  him  no  more,  nor  any  of  her  kind.  He 
had  set  himself  to  build  a  house,  and  for  the  sake  of 
that  house  there  was  nothing,  whether  of  his  own  or  of 
others,  that  he  could  not  tame,  break  down,  and  destroy. 

§5- 

By  the  end  of  the  year  Reuben  had  saved  enough 
money  to  buy  five  acres  of  Boarzell,  in  the  low  grounds 
down  by  Totease.  He  had  saved  chiefly  on  the  wages 
of  Blackman  and  Becky,  though,  against  that,  he  had 
been  forced  to  engage  outside  help  for  the  hay  in  June, 
and  also  for  the  wheat  in  August.  However,  he  had 
been  lucky  enough  to  secure  tramp  labour  for  this, 
which  meant  payment  largely  in  barn-room  and  bread. 

Then  there  had  been  a  host  of  minor  retrenchments, 
each  in  itself  so  small  as  to  be  almost  useless,  but 
mounting  together  into  something  profitable.  Chocolate 
had  vanished  from  the  Odiam  supper-table,  their  bread 
was  made  of  seconds,  the  genuines  being  sold  to  Iden 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       37 

Mill ;  they  ate  no  meat  on  week-days  except  bacon,  and 
eggs  were  forbidden  in  puddings.  Reuben  managed  to 
get  a  small  sale  for  his  eggs  and  milk  at  the  Manor  and 
the  curate's  house,  though  he  had  not  enough  cows  and 
poultry  to  make  his  dealing  of  much  advantage. 

Mrs.  Backfield  was  the  one  to  bear  the  brunt  of  these 
economies.  She  had  been  a  trifle  pampered  during  the 
latter  days  of  her  marriage,  and  set  far  more  store  than 
her  sons  on  dainty  food  ;  also  the  work  which  she  per- 
formed so  well  was  a  tax  on  her  unaccustomedness.  But 
she  never  grumbled,  and  this  was  not  only  because 
escape  was  near  at  hand.  Strange  to  say,  in  these  new 
days  of  his  lordship,  Reuben  began  to  fill  a  place  in  her 
heart  which  he  had  never  filled  before.  While  her 
husband  was  alive,  he  had  never  really  come  inside  her 
life,  he  had  been  an  aloof,  inarticulate  being  whom  she 
did  not  understand.  But  now  that  he  had  asserted 
himself,  she  found  herself  turning  towards  him.  She 
would  have  worked  without  prospect  of  release — indeed, 
as  the  days  went  by,  Harry  and  his  home  and  her 
promised  idleness  dwindled  in  her  thoughts. 

When  Reuben  told  her  he  could  now  buy  his  first 
piece  of  Boarzell,  she  went  through  the  day's  work  full 
of  joy.  Though,  as  far  as  the  land  itself  was  concerned, 
she  would  far  rather  have  had  new  chintz  covers  for  the 
parlour  chairs. 

They  never  sat  in  the  parlour  now. 

Harry's  pleasure  was  obviously  insincere,  just  a  mask 
put  on  out  of  kindness  to  his  brother.  Naomi  was 
coming  over  on  a  few  days'  visit,  and  everything  else 
was  smoke.  No  one,  Reuben  reflected,  as  he  walked 
over  to  Flightshot  to  see  Sir  Miles's  agent,  no  one  cared 
a  rap  about  Boarzell.  His  mother  thought  more  of  her 
food  and  of  her  furniture,  thought  more  of  him  and 
Harry,  while  Harry  thought  of  nothing  but  Naomi. 
He  would  have  to  wage  his  fight  alone. 

The  transaction  was  prompt  and  satisfactory.  Reuben 


38  SUSSEX    GORSE 

did  not  haggle  over  the  price,  and  was  careful  to  let  the 
agent  know  of  his  eagerness  to  buy  more — otherwise,  he 
was  afraid  that  the  Squire  might  either  give  the  land 
back  to  the  people,  pushed  by  his  Liberal  politics,  or 
else  part  with  it  for  a  song  to  some  speculator.  So  he 
paid  really  a  bit  more  than  the  land  was  worth,  and 
made  the  agent  a  confidant  of  his  dreams. 

"  It'll  want  a  tedious  lot  of  righting,  will  that  plot," 
he  asserted,  to  counteract  any  idea  his  eagerness  might 
give  that  Boarzell  was  a  mine  of  hidden  fertility — 
"  Dunno  as  I  shall  maake  anything  out  of  it.  But  it's 
land  I  want — want  to  maake  myself  a  sort  of  landed 
praprietor  " — a  lie — "  and  raise  the  old  farm  up  a  bit. 
I'd  like  to  have  the  whole  of  Boarzell.  Reckon  as 
Grandturzel  'ud  sell  me  their  bit  soon  as  I've  got  the 
rest.  They'll  never  maake  anything  out  of  it." 

He  walked  home  over  Boarzell,  scarcely  conscious  of 
the  ground  he  trod.  He  felt  like  a  new-crowned  king. 
As  he  looked  round  on  the  swart  hummocks  of  the  Moor, 
and  its  crest  of  firs,  dim  and  bistred  against  the  grey 
afternoon  clouds,  he  found  it  hard  to  realise  that  it  was 
not  all  his,  that  he  still  had  almost  the  whole  of  it  to 
fight  for,  acre  by  acre.  He  hurried  towards  his  own 
little  plot,  bought,  but  as  yet  unconquered,  still  shagged 
with  gorse  and  brittle  with  shards. . 

It  was  down  in  the  hollow  by  Totease,  as  unpromising 
an  estate  as  one  could  wish,  all  on  a  slope,  gorse-grown 
at  the  top,  then  a  layer  of  bracken,  and  at  the  Totease 
fence  a  kind  of  oozy  pulp,  where  a  lavant  dribbled  in 
and  out  of  the  grass ;  to  Reuben,  however,  it  was  a 
land  of  milk  and  honey.  He  turned  up  the  soil  of  it 
with  his  foot,  and  blessed  the  wealden  clay. 

"  No  flints  here,"  he  said ;  "  reckon  there's  some  stiff 
ground  on  the  hill — but  it's  only  the  surface.  Heather 
aun't  growing — that's  a  tedious  good  sign.  I'll  have 
oats  here — the  best  in  Peasmarsh." 

He  stood  staring  at  the  grass  with  its  dribbles  of 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       39 

lavant  and  spines  of  rushes.  The  wind  brought  the 
sound  of  someone  singing.  At  first  he  scarcely  noticed, 
then  gradually  the  song  worked  in  with  his  daydream, 
and  ended  by  rousing  him  out  of  it.  He  strolled  across 
his  domain,  and  marked  half  a  dozen  sturdy  willows 
which  must  come  out  somehow  roots  and  all.  He 
climbed  into  the  bracken  zone,  and  from  thence  saw 
Harry  sitting  by  a  gorse  thicket  some  hundred  yards  off 
with  Naomi  Gasson. 

The  wind  puffed  gently  towards  him,  bringing  him  the 
song  and  the  soft  peach-smell  of  the  gorse.  Harry  was 
a  musician  already  of  note  among  the  farms ;  he  had 
a  beautiful  voice,  and  there  was  very  little  he  could  not 
do  with  his  fiddle,  though  of  late  this  had  been  neglected 
for  the  claims  of  work  and  love.  To-day  he  was  singing 
an  old  song  Reuben  knew  well — "  The  Song  of  Seth's 
House  "  : 

"  '  The  blackbird  flew  out  from  the  eaves  of  the  Manor, 

The  Manor  of  Seth  in  the  Sussex  countrie, 
And  he  carried  a  prayer  from  the  lad  of  the  Manor, 
A  prayer  and  a  tear  to  his  faithless  ladie. 

"  '  To  the  lady  who  lives  in  the  Grange  by  the  water, 

The  water  of  Iron  in  the  Sussex  countrie, 
The  lad  of  Seth's  House  prays  for  comfort  and  pity — 
Have  pity,  my  true  love,  have  pity  on  me  1 

"  '  O  why  when  we  loved  like  the  swallows  in  April, 

Should  beauty  forget  now  their  nests  have  grown  cold  ? 
O  why  when  we  kissed  'mid  the  ewes  on  the  hanger, 

Should  you  turn  from  me  now  that  they  winter  in  fold  ? 

"  '  O  why,  because  sickness  hath  wasted  my  body, 

Should  you  do  me  to  death  with  your  dark  treacherie  ? 
O  why,  because  brothers  and  friends  all  have  left  me, 
Should  you  leave  me  too,  O  my  faithless  ladie  ? 

"  '  One  day  when  your  pride  shall  have  brought  you  to  sorrow, 

And  years  of  despair  and  remorse  been  your  fate, 
Perhaps  your  cold  heart  will  remember  Seth's  Manor, 
And  turn  to  your  true  love — and  find  it  too  late.'  " 

Harry's  voice  was  very  loud  and  clear,  with  that 
element  of  wildness  which  is  a  compensation  for  no 


40  SUSSEX    GORSE 

training.  When  he  had  finished  "  The  Song  of  Seth's 
House  "  he  started  another,  but  broke  off  in  the  middle 
of  it,  and  Reuben  saw  the  two  heads  suddenly  droop 
together,  and  fuse,  the  golden  hair  and  the  brown. 

Naomi  leaned  against  Harry,  and  his  hand  stole  up 
and  down  her  arm,  stroking  its  whiteness.  Reuben 
stood  watching  them,  and  for  a  moment  he  hungered. 
This  was  what  he  had  cast  away. 

He  turned  from  them  sharply,  and  threw  himself 
down  on  the  dead  bracken.  Then  suddenly  the  hunger 
passed.  The  reek  of  the  moist  earth  rose  up  in  his 
nostrils ;  it  was  the  scent  of  his  love,  who  was  sweeter 
to  him  than  ever  Naomi  was  to  Harry.  His  hand  stole 
over  the  short,  mould-smelling  grass,  caressing  it.  He 
had  a  love  more  beautiful  than  Harry's,  whose  comeli- 
ness would  stay  unwithered  through  the  years,  whose 
fruitfulness  would  make  him  great,  whose  allure  was 
salted  with  a  hundred  dangers.  .  .  .  His  fingers  dug 
themselves  into  the  earth,  and  he  embraced  Boarzell 
with  wide-flung  trembling  arms.  "  My  land  !  "  he  cried 
— "  mine  ! — mine  !  " 

§6. 

The  neighbourhood  sniggered  when  it  heard  of  Odiam's 
new  land.  When  it  heard  of  Reuben's  plans  for  it  and 
the  oats  that  were  to  be  it  grew  openly  derisive.  The 
idea  of  anyone  thinking  he  could  grow  oats  on  Boarzell 
was  an  excellent  joke.  Young  Backfield,  however, 
ignored  public  opinion,  and  bought  rape-dust  for 
manure. 

He  was  as  jealous  of  this  strip  of  earth  as  of  a  wife — 
he  would  allow  nobody  to  work  there  but  himself.  Alone 
and  unhelped  he  grubbed  up  the  bracken,  turned  the 
soil,  and  scattered  rape-dust  and  midden  till  they  had 
to  shut  their  windows  at  Burntbarns.  He  believed  that 
if  the  ground  was  properly  manured  it  would  be  ready 
for  sowing  in  the  autumn.  The  only  difficulty  now  was 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       41 

the  trees ;    they  were  casting  malevolent  shadows,  and 
dredging  up  the  goodness  out  of  the  earth. 

Where  Ditch  of  Totease  or  Vennal  of  Burntbarns 
would  have  taken  a  couple  of  woodmen  and  a  saw, 
Reuben  took  nothing  but  an  axe  and  his  bare  arms. 
His  muscles  ached  for  this  new  carouse  of  exertion. 

"  Let  me  give  you  a  hand,"  said  Harry  that  day  at 
dinner. 

"  No— why  should  I  ?  " 

"  You'll  never  do  it  yourself,"  said  Naomi,  who  was 
spending  a  few  days  at  Odiam. 

"  Oh,  woan't  I !  "  and  Reuben  showed  his  strong 
white  teeth. 

"  How  many  trees  are  there  ?  " 

"  Half  a  dozen — willers.  The  real  trouble  will  be 
gitting  their  roots  out." 

"  And  will  you  do  that  alone  ?  " 

"  I'll  see  about  it." 

Naomi  looked  across  at  Reuben  without  speaking. 
Her  lips,  a  pale  coral-pink,  were  parted,  showing  two 
tiny  teeth.  She  was  not  the  type  he  favoured — she  was 
too  soft  and  bloodless — but  he  could  not  help  feeling 
flattered  by  the  frank  admiration  he  saw  in  her  eyes. 
He  knew  that  this  last  year  of  wind  and  sun  and  healthy 
work  had  narrowed  the  gulf  between  him  and  Beautiful 
Harry.  He  was  as  hard  as  iron  and  as  brown  as 
a  nut,  and  there  was  a  warm  red  glowing  through 
the  swarthiness  of  his  cheeks  like  the  bloom  on  a 
russet  pear. 

Harry  looked  up  from  his  plate,  and  the  gaze  became 
three-cornered.  Reuben,  defiant  of  his  brother,  grew 
bold,  and  ogled,  whereupon  Naomi  grew  timid,  and 
dropped  her  eyes ;  Harry  found  himself  speaking  with 
a  rasp : 

"  I'm  coming  to  help  you,  Reuben.  You'll  never 
tackle  them  rootses — it  aun't  everything  you  can  do 
surely  e  !  " 


42  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  I  can  do  that  much.  You  stay  here  and  play  the 
fiddle  to  Naomi." 

Harry  somehow  felt  he  had  been  insulted,  and  opened 
his  mouth  to  retort.  But  his  brother  suddenly  began 
talking  about  an  accident  to  a  labourer  at  Grandturzel, 
and  the  occasion  dropped. 

After  dinner  Reuben  set  out  with  his  axe,  and  Harry 
and  Naomi  sat  together  on  the  floor  beside  the  kitchen 
fire.  He  gave  her  kisses  like  the  wind,  swift  and  cool. 
She  was  the  only  woman  he  had  kissed,  and  she  had 
never  been  kissed  by  any  other  man.  Their  love  had  its 
wildnesses,  but  not  the  wildnesses  of  fire — rather  of  the 
dancing  boughs  of  some  spring-caught  wood,  rioting 
together  in  May.  Now  and  then  he  would  sing  as  he 
held  her  to  him,  his  fresh  young  voice  ringing  up  to 
the  roof.  .  .  . 

Later  in  the  afternoon  they  went  out  together.  It 
seemed  a  pity  to  stay  indoors  in  the  soft  swale,  and 
Harry  had  to  look  at  some  poultry  at  Doozes.  Naomi 
walked  with  her  arm  through  his,  her  grey  cloak  over 
her  shoulders. 

"  I  wonder  if  Reuben's  still  at  it  ?  "  said  Harry,  as  the 
footpath  began  to  skirt  the  new  land. 

"  Yes — I  see  him  yonder.  He  doesn't  see  us,  I 
reckon." 

They  stood  on  the  hillside  and  looked  down  at 
Reuben.  He  had  felled  five  trees,  and  was  now  getting 
his  axe  into  the  sixth.  They  watched  him  in  silence,  and 
Naomi  found  herself  remembering  the  way  he  had 
looked  at  her  at  dinner. 

"  He's  a  valiant  man,"  said  Harry. 

Naomi  saw  him  sweep  the  axe  above  his  shoulder,  and 
the  ease  and  strength  of  his  swing  gave  her  a  strange 
tingling  sensation  in  her  breast.  The  axe  crashed  into 
the  wood,  then  Reuben  pulled  it  up,  and  the  muscles 
of  his  back  made  two  long,  ovoid  lumps  under 
his  blue  shirt.  Again  the  axe  swung  and  fell,  again 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT      43 

Naomi's   body   tingled   as   with  a   physical    exhilara- 
tion. 

The  January  twilight  deepened,  and  soon  Reuben's 
blue  shirt  was  all  that  was  clear  in  the  hollow.  The  bites 
of  the  axe  cracked  out  on  the  still  air — and  suddenly 
with  a  soft  swish  of  boughs  the  tree  fell. 

§7. 

That  night  Reuben  came  to  supper  as  hungry  as  a 
wolf.  He  was  in  a  fine  good  humour,  for  his  body, 
pleasantly  tired,  glowing,  aching,  tickled  with  the  smell 
of  food,  was  giving  him  a  dozen  agreeable  sensations. 

"  Got  some  splendid  fire-wood  fur  you,  mother/'  he 
said  after  a  few  minutes'  silence  enforced  by  eating. 

"And  wot  about  the  rootses?  "  asked  Harry,  " wull 
you  be  digging  those  out  to-morrer  ?  It'll  be  an 
unaccountable  tough  job." 

"  Oh,  I've  found  a  way  of  gitting  shut  of  them  rootses 
— thought  of  it  while  I  wur  working  at  the  trees.  I'm 
going  to  blast  'em  out." 

"  Blast  'em  !  " 

"  Yes.  Blast  'em  wud  gunpowder.  I've  heard  of  its 
being  done.  I'd  never  dig  all  the  stuff  out  myself — 
yards  of  it  there  be — wilier  rootses  always  wur  hemmed 
spready." 

"  It's  never  bin  done  in  these  parts." 

"  Well,  it'll  be  done  now,  surelye.  It'll  show  the  folk 
here  I  mean  business — and  that  I'm  a  chap  wud  ideas." 

There  was  indeed  a  mild  excitement  in  the  farms 
round  Boarzell  when  Reuben's  new  plan  became  known. 
In  those  times  gunpowder  was  seldom  used  for  such 
purposes,  and  the  undertaking  was  looked  upon  as  a 
treat  and  a  display.  .  .  . 

"  Backfield's  going  to  bust  up  his  willer-rootses — • 
fine  sight  it'll  be — like  as  not  blow  his  own  head  off — 
I'll  be  there  to  see." 

So  when  Reuben  came  to  his  territory  the  next  after- 


44  SUSSEX    GORSE 

noon  he  found  a  small  crowd  assembled — Ditch,  Ginner, 
Realf  of  Grandturzel,  Coalbran  of  Doozes,  Pilcher  of 
Birdseye,  with  a  sprinkling  of  their  wives,  families,  and 
farm-hands.  He  himself  had  brought  Naomi,  and  Harry 
was  to  join  them  when  he  came  back  from  an  errand  to 
Moor's  Cottage.  Reuben  felt  a  trifle  important  and  in 
need  of  spectators.  This  was  to  be  the  crowning  act  of 
conquest.  When  those  roots  were  shattered  away  there 
would  be  nothing  but  time  and  manure  between  him 
and  the  best  oat-crop  in  Peasmarsh. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed,  and  there  was  no  sign  of 
Harry.  Reuben  grew  impatient,  for  he  wanted  to  have 
the  ground  tidied  up  by  sunset.  It  was  a  wan,  mould- 
smelling  afternoon,  and  already  the  sun  was  drifting 
through  whorls  of  coppery  mist  towards  the  shoulder  of 
Boarzell.  Reuben  looked  up  to  the  gorse-clump  on  the 
ridge,  from  behind  which  he  expected  Harry  to  appear. 

"  I  can't  wait  any  longer/'  he  said  to  Naomi,  "  some- 
thing's kept  him." 

"  He'll  be  disappointed,"  said  Naomi  softly. 

"  I  can't  help  that — the  sun's  near  down,  and  I  must 
have  everything  praaper  by  dark." 

He  went  to  where  the  fuse  lay  like  a  snake  in  the 
grass,  and  struck  his  flint. 

"  Stand  back  everybody  ;   I'm  going  to  start  her." 

The  group  huddled  back  a  few  yards.  The  little  flame 
writhed  along  towards  the  stump.  There  was  silence. 
Reuben  stood  a  little  way  in  front  of  the  others,  leaning 
forward  with  eager,  parted  lips. 

Suddenly  Naomi  cried  out : 

"  There's  Harry  !  " 

A  shadow  appeared  against  the  copper  sky,  and  ran 
towards  them  down  the  hill. 

For  a  moment  nobody  seemed  to  realise  what  was 
boding.  Then  they  heard  a  shout  that  sounded  like 
"  Wait  for  me  !  "  Naomi  felt  something  rise  in  her 
throat  and  sear  the  roof  of  her  mouth  like  a  hot  cinder. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       45 

She  tried  to  scream,  but  her  parched  tongue  would  not 
move.  She  staggered  forward,  but  Reuben  flung  her 
back. 

"  Stop  !  "  he  shouted. 

Harry  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

"  Stop  !  "  yelled  Reuben  again.  Then  he  cried, 
"  Stand  back  !  "  to  the  crowd,  and  ran  towards  his 
brother. 

But  it  was  too  late.  There  was  a  sudden  roar,  a  sheet 
of  flame,  a  crash,  a  dreadful  scream,  and  then  a  far  more 
dreadful  silence. 

One  or  two  flames  sang  out  of  a  hole  in  the  ground, 
but  scarcely  anything  could  be  seen  for  the  pall  of 
smoke  that  hung  over  Boarzell,  black,  and  evil-smelling. 
The  fumes  made  men  choke,  then  they  shuddered  and 
drew  together,  for  through  the  smell  of  smoke  and  gun- 
powder came  the  horrible  smell  of  burnt  flesh. 

Reuben  was  lying  on  his  face  a  few  yards  in  front  of 
the  others.  For  some  seconds  nobody  moved.  Then 
Backfield  slowly  raised  himself  on  his  arms. 

"I'm  not  hurt,"  he  said  in  a  shaking  voice. 

"  Harry  i  "  cried  Naomi,  as  if  someone  were  strangling 
her. 

Reuben  tottered  to  his  feet.  His  face  was  black,  and 
he  was  still  half  stunned  by  the  explosion. 

"  Harry  !  "  cried  Naomi — and  then  fainted. 

The  smoke  clouds  were  lifting,  and  now  everyone 
could  see  a  smouldering  object  that  lay  close  to  the  hole, 
among  bits  of  wood  and  stone. 

Reuben  ran  towards  it,  Ditch  and  Realf  followed  him. 
The  others  huddled  stupidly  together  like  sheep. 

"  His  clothes  are  still  burning — here,  help  me,  you  !  " 
cried  Reuben,  beating  at  the  flames  with  his  hands. 

"  He's  dead,"  said  Realf. 

"  Oh  Lord  !  "  wailed  Ditch—"  Oh  Lord  !  " 

"  He's  bin  hit  on  the  head  wud  a  piece  of  wood.  I 
reckon  he  died  painlessly.  All  this  came  afterwards." 


46  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Wipe  the  blood  off  his  face." 

"  Tell  his  poor  girl  he  died  wudout  suffering. " 

"  He  aun't  dead/'  said  Reuben. 

He  had  torn  off  the  rags  from  his  brother's  heart,  and 
felt  it  beating. 

"  He  aun't  dead." 

"  Oh  Lord  !  "  wailed  Ditch.—"  Oh  Lord  !  " 

"  Here,  you  chaps,  fetch  a  geat  and  put  him  on  it — 
and  doan't  let  Naomi  see  him." 

Naomi  had  been  taken  back  to  Odiam,  when  Harry, 
still  motionless  and  apparently  dead,  was  lifted  on  a 
gate,  and  borne  away.  Dark  curds  of  smoke  drifted 
among  the  willows,  and  the  acrid  smell  of  powder  clung 
to  the  hillside  like  an  evil  ghost.  The  place  where 
Harry  had  lain  was  marked  by  charred  and  trampled 
grass,  and  a  great  pool  of  blood  was  sinking  into 
the  ground  ...  it  seemed  to  Reuben,  as  he  turned 
shudderingly  away,  as  if  Boarzell  were  drinking  it  up — 
eagerly,  greedily,  as  a  thirsty  land  drinks  up  its  first 
watering. 

§8. 

Dr.  Espinette  from  Rye  stood  glumly  by  Harry's  bed. 
His  finger  lay  on  the  fluttering  pulse,  and  his  eye  studied 
the  little  of  the  sick  man's  face  that  could  be  seen 
between  its  bandages. 

"  It's  a  bad  business,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  that  wound 
in  the  head's  the  worst  of  it.  The  burns  aren't  very 
serious  in  themselves.  You  must  keep  him  quiet,  and 
I'll  call  again  to-morrow  morning." 

"  When  ull  he  waake  up  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Backfield  in 
the  feeble  voice  her  tears  had  left  her. 

"  I  don't  know — it  may  be  in  an  hour  or  two,  it  mayn't 
be  for  a  week." 

"  A  week  !  " 

"  I've  known  them  unconscious  longer  than  that. 
But,  cheer  up,  ma'am — we're  not  going  to  let  him  slip 
past  us*" 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT      47 

The  doctor  went  away,  and  after  a  time  Reuben  was 
able  to  persuade  his  mother  to  go  and  lie  down  in  the 
next  room.  He  had  quite  recovered  from  the  shock  of 
the  explosion ;  indeed,  he  was  now  the  only  calm  person 
in  the  house.  He  sat  down  by  Harry's  bed,  gazing  at 
the  unconscious  face. 

How  horrible  everything  had  been  !  How  horrible 
everything  was  still,  with  that  loggish,  inanimate  thing 
lying  there,  all  that  was  left  of  Beautiful  Harry.  Reuben 
wondered  if  he  would  die.  If  so,  he  had  killed  him — he 
had  ignored  his  own  inexperience  and  played  splashy 
tricks  with  his  new  land.  But  no — he  had  not  killed 
him — it  was  Boarzell,  claiming  a  victim  in  the  signal- 
rite  of  its  subjection.  He  remembered  how  that  thirsty 
ground  had  drunk  up  Harry's  blood.  Perhaps  it  would 
drink  up  much  more  blood  before  he  had  done  with  it — 
perhaps  it  would  one  day  drink  up  his  blood.  ...  A 
vague,  a  sudden,  a  ridiculous  fear  clutched  his  thoughts  ; 
for  the  first  time  he  felt  afraid  of  the  thing  he  had  set  out 
to  conquer — for  the  first  time  Boarzell  was  not  just 
unfruitful  soil,  harsh  heather  clumps  and  gorse-roots — it 
was  something  personal,  opposing,  vindictive,  blood- 
drinking. 

He  sprang  to  his  -feet  and  began  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room.  The  window  square  was  black.  He  was  glad 
he  could  not  see  Boarzell  with  its  knob  of  firs.  Gradually 
the  motion  of  his  legs  calmed  his  thoughts,  he  fell  to 
pondering  more  ordinary  things — had  his  mother 
remembered  to  stand  the  evening's  milk  in  the  cream 
pans  ?  She  had  probably  forgotten  all  about  the 
curate's  butter  to  be  delivered  the  next  morning.  What 
had  Harry  done  about  those  mangolds  at  Moor's 
Cottage  ?  Burn  it !  He  would  have  to  do  all  the  work 
of  the  farm  to-morrow — how  he  was  to  manage  things 
he  didn't  know,  what  with  the  dairy  and  the  new  chicks 
and  the  Alderney  having  garget.  He  stopped  pacing, 
and  chin  in  hand  was  considering  the  expediency  of 


48  SUSSEX    GORSE 

engaging  outside  help,  when  a  voice  from  the  bed  cried 
feebly : 

"  Oh  !  " 

Reuben  went  to  Harry's  side,  and  bent  over  him. 

"  Oh,"  moaned  his  brother,  "  oh  ! — oh  !  " 

"I'm  here,  old  feller,"  said  Reuben  with  a  clumsy 
effort  at  tenderness. 

"  Bring  a  light,  do — I  can't  abide  this  dark." 

Reuben  fetched  the  candle  to  the  bedside. 

"  Where's  Naomi  ?  " 

"  She's  asleep.    Do  you  want  her  ?  " 

"  No — let  her  sleep.  But  bring  me  a  light  fur  marcy's 
sake." 

"  I've  brought  it — it's  here  by  the  bed." 

"  I  can't  see  it." 

"  You  must — it's  right  in  your  eyes." 

"  I  can't— oh  !  " 

He  started  up  in  bed  and  gripped  his  brother's  hand. 
He  thrust  his  head  forward,  his  eyeballs  straining. 

"  Take  it  away  !   take  it  away  !  "  he  screamed. 

"  Wot  ?  "  cried  Reuben,  sick  with  the  new-born 
terror. 

"  That  black  stuff  in  front  of  my  eyes.  Take  it 
away  !  Take  it  away  !  " 

He  tore  his  hand  free,  and  began  clawing  and  beating 
at  his  face. 

Reuben's  teeth  were  chattering. 

"  Kip  calm,  lad — kip  calm.  There's  naun  there, 
naun,  I  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "—screamed  Harry—"  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  " 

The  outcry  brought  Mrs.  Backfield  from  the  next 
room,  Naomi  shivering  in  her  wake.  Reuben  was  trying 
to  hold  Harry  down  in  bed. 

Through  the  long  night  they  wrestled  with  him, 
blind  and  raving.  At  first  it  seemed  as  if  Naomi's 
presence  soothed  him,  and  he  would  let  her  stroke  his 
arms  and  hands.  But  after  a  time  he  ceased  to  recog- 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT      49 

nise  her.  He  gabbled  about  her  a  good  deal,  but  did 
not  know  she  was  there.  His  delirium  was  full  of  strange 
tags — a  chicken  brood  he  was  raising,  a  sick  cow,  a 
jaunt  into  Rye  with  Realf  of  Grandturzel,  a  dozen  harm 
less  homely  things  which  were  all  transfused  with  an 
alien  horror,  all  somehow  made  frightful,  so  that  Reuben 
felt  he  could  never  look  on  chickens,  cows  or  Rye 
again  without  a  shudder. 

Sometimes  there  were  crises  of  extraordinary  violence 
when  he  was  with  difficulty  held  down  in  bed,  and  these 
at  last  wore  him  out.  Towards  dawn  he  fell  into  a 
troubled  sleep. 

Naomi  slept  too,  huddled  in  a  chair,  every  now  and 
then  a  sob  quivering  through  her.  The  winter  dawn 
slowly  crept  in  on  her,  showing  her  pitiful  figure — 
showing  Mrs.  Backfield  sick  and  puffy  with  tears, 
Reuben  dry-eyed  beside  the  bed,  and  Harry  respited  in 
sleep.  Outside  the  crest  of  Boarzell  was  once  more 
visible  in  the  growing  light — dark,  lumpish,  malevolent, 
against  the  kindling  of  the  sky. 

§9. 

The  next  few  days  were  terrible,  in  the  house  and  on 
the  farm.  Indoors  the  women  nursed  Harry,  and  out- 
doors Reuben  did  double  work,  sleeping  at  night  in  an 
arm-chair  by  his  brother's  side. 

Harry  had  recovered  consciousness,  but  it  could  not 
be  said  that  he  had  "  come  to  himself/'  "  Beautiful 
Harry,"  with  all  his  hopes  and  ardours,  his  dreams  and 
sensibilities,  had  run  away  like  a  gipsy,  and  in  his  place 
was  a  new  Harry,  blind  and  mad,  who  moaned  and 
laughed,  with  stony  silences,  and  now  and  then  strange 
fits  of  struggling  as  if  the  runaway  gipsy  strove  to 
come  back. 

Dr.  Espinette  refused  to  say  whether  this  state  was 
permanent  or  merely  temporary.  Neither  could  he  be 
sure  whether  it  was  due  to  his  injuries  or  to  the  shock 


50  SUSSEX    GORSE 

of  finding  himself  blind.  Reuben  felt  practically  con- 
vinced that  his  brother  was  sane  during  the  few  moments 
he  had  spoken  to  him  alone,  but  the  doctor  seemed 
doubtful. 

Reuben  was  glad  to  escape  into  his  farm  work.  The 
atmosphere  of  sickness  was  like  a  cloud,  which  grew 
blacker  and  blacker  the  nearer  one  came  to  its  heart. 
Its  heart  was  that  little  room  in  the  gable,  where  he 
spent  those  wretched  nights,  disturbed  by  Harry's 
moaning.  Out  of  doors,  in  the  yard  or  the  cowshed  or 
the  stable,  he  breathed  a  cleaner  atmosphere.  The 
heaviness,  the  vague  remorse,  grew  lighter.  And  strange 
to  say,  out  on  Boarzell,  which  was  the  cause  of  his 
trouble,  they  grew  lightest  of  all. 

Somehow  out  there  was  a  wider  life,  a  life  which  took 
no  reck  of  sickness  or  horror  or  self-reproach.  The  wind 
which  stung  his  face  and  roughed  his  hair,  the  sun  which 
tanned  his  nape  as  he  bent  to  his  work,  the  smell  of  the 
earth  after  rain,  the  mists  that  brewed  in  the  hollows  at 
dusk,  and  at  dawn  slunk  like  spirits  up  to  the  clouds 
.  .  .  they  were  all  part  of  something  too  great  to  take 
count  of  human  pain — so  much  greater  than  he  that  in 
it  he  could  forget  his  trouble,  and  find  ease  and  hope 
and  purpose — even  though  he  was  fighting  it. 

He  mildly  scandalised  his  neighbours  by  blasting- — 
privately  this  time — the  tree  stumps  yet  in  the  ground. 
According  to  their  ethics  he  should  have  accepted 
Harry's  accident  as  the  voice  of  Providence  and  ab- 
stained from  his  outlandish  methods — also  some  felt 
that  it  was  a  matter  of  delicacy  and  decent  feeling  not 
to  repeat  that  which  had  had  such  dire  consequences 
for  his  brother.  "  I  wonder  he  can  bear  to  do  it,"  said 
Ginner,  when  '  Bang  !  Bang  !  '  came  over  the  hummocks 
to  Socknersh. 

But  Reuben  did  it  because  he  was  not  going  to  be 
beaten  in  any  respect  by  his  land.  He  was  not  going|to 
accept  defeat  in  the  slightest  instance.  So  he  blew  up 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       51 

the  stumps,  tidied  the  ground,  and  spread  manure — 
and  more  manure — and  yet  more  manure. 

Manure  was  his  great  idea  at  that  moment.  He  had 
carefully  tilled  and  turned  the  soil,  and  he  fed  it  with 
manure  as  one  crams  chickens.  It  was  of  poor  quality 
marl,  mostly  lime  on  the  high  ground,  with  a  larger 
proportion  of  clay  beside  the  ditch.  Reuben's  plan 
was  to  fatten  it  well  before  he  sowed  his  seed.  Com- 
plaints of  his  night-soil  came  all  the  way  from  Grand- 
turzel ;  Vennal,  humorously  inclined,  sent  him  a  bag 
of  rotten  fish ;  on  the  rare  occasions  his  work  allowed 
him  to  meet  other  farmers  at  the  Cocks,  his  talk  was  all 
of  lime,  guano,  and  rape-cake,  with  digressions  on  the 
possibilities  of  seaweed.  He  was  manure  mad. 

The  neighbours  despised  and  mistrusted  his  enthu- 
siasm. There  he  was,  thinking  of  nothing  but  his  land, 
when  Harry,  his  only  brother,  lay  worse  than  dying. 
But  Reuben  often  thought  of  Harry. 

One  thing  he  noticed,  and  that  was  that  the  house- 
work was  always  done  for  him  by  his  mother  as  if  there 
were  no  sickness  to  fill  her  time.  Always  when  he  came 
home  of  an  evening,  his  supper  was  waiting  for  him, 
hot  and  savoury.  He  breakfasted  whenever  he  had  a 
mind,  and  there  were  slices  of  cold  pie  or  dabs  of  bread 
and  meat  for  him  to  take  out  and  eat  as  he  worked — he 
had  no  time  to  come  home  to  dinner  now.  Really  his 
mother  was  tumbling  to  things  wonderfully  well — she 
looked  a  little  tired  sometimes,  it  is  true,  and  the  lines 
of  her  face  were  growing  thinner,  but  she  was  saving 
him  seven  shillings  a  month  and  the  girl's  food  ;  and  all 
that  money  and  food  was  feeding  the  hungry  earth. 

Naomi  helped  her  with  the  nursing,  and  also  a  little 
about  the  house.  She  had  refused  to  go  home  to  Rye, 
though  Harry  did  not  seem  to  recognise  her. 

"  For  sometimes,"  she  said,  "  I  think  he  does." 


52  SUSSEX    GORSE 


§10. 

Towards  the  middle  of  February  a  change  took  place 
in  Harry.  At  first  it  was  little  more  than  a  faint  creep 
of  life,  putting  a  little  glow  in  his  cheeks,  a  little  warmth 
in  his  blood.  Then  the  wounds  which  had  been  healing 
so  slowly  began  to  heal  quickly,  his  appetite  returned, 
and  he  slept  long  and  sweetly  at  nights. 

Mrs.  Backfield's  hope  rekindled,  but  the  doctor  soon 
damped  it  down.  This  sudden  recrudescence  of  physical 
health  was  a  bad  sign,  for  there  was  no  corresponding 
revival  of  intellect,  and  now  the  prostration  of  the  body 
could  no  longer  account  for  the  aberration  of  the  mind. 
It  was  unlikely  that  Harry  would  ever  recover  his  wits — 
the  injuries  to  his  skull,  either  with  or  without  the  shock 
of  his  blindness,  had  definitely  affected  his  brain.  The 
strong,  clear  will,  the  gay  spirits,  the  quick  under- 
standing, the  tender  sensibilities  which  had  made  him 
so  bright  and  lovable  a  being,  were  gone — how  much  of 
shreds  and  scraps  they  had  left  behind  them  to  build 
up  the  semblance  of  a  man,  did  not  yet  appear. 

His  looks  would  be  only  slightly  marred.  It  was  the 
optic  nerve  which  had  been  destroyed,  and  so  far  there 
was  nothing  ugly  in  the  eyes  themselves,  except  their 
vacant  rolling.  The  eyelashes  and  eyebrows  had  been 
burnt  off,  but  they  were  growing  again,  and  a  scar  on 
his  cheek  and  another  on  his  forehead  were  not  likely 
to  show  much  in  a  few  weeks'  time.  But  all  the  life, 
the  light,  the  soul  had  gone  out  of  his  face — it  was  like 
a  house  which  had  been  gutted,  with  walls  and  roof 
still  standing,  yet  with  its  essential  quality  gone  from 
it,  a  ruin. 

Reuben  thought  long  and  anxiously  about  his  brother. 
He  did  not  speak  much  of  him  to  his  mother  or  Naomi, 
for  he  knew  that  they  would  not  understand  the  problem 
that  confronted  him.  He  felt  worn  by  the  extra  load  of 
work,  and  his  brain  fretted,  spoiling  his  good  sleep.  He 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       53 

was  back  in  his  own  room  now,  but  he  slept  worse  than 
in  Harry's  ;  he  would  lie  awake  fighting  mentally,  just 
as  all  day  he  had  fought  physically — life  was  a  con- 
tinuous fight. 

It  was  hard  that  just  at  the  outset  of  his  enterprise, 
fresh  obstacles  should  be  thrown  in  his  way.  He  saw 
that  it  was  practically  impossible  for  him  to  go  on 
working  as  he  did  ;  already  he  was  paying  for  it  in  stiff 
muscles,  loss  of  appetite,  fitful  sleep,  and  drugged 
wakings.  Also  he  was  growing  irritable  and  frayed  as  to 
temper.  If  he  went  on  much  longer  doing  the  work  of 
three  men — he  had  always  done  the  work  of  two — he 
would  end  by  breaking  up  completely,  and  then  what 
would  become  of  Odiam  ?  He  would  have  to  engage 
outside  help,  and  that  would  mean  quite  ten  shillings  a 
week — ten  shillings  a  week,  two  pounds  a  month,  twenty- 
six  pounds  a  year,  the  figures  were  like  blisters  in  his 
head  during  the  long  restless  nights.  They  throbbed 
and  throbbed  through  his  dreams.  He  would  have  to 
spend  twenty-six  pounds  a  year,  just  when  he  was 
saving  so  desperately  to  buy  more  land  and  fatten  what 
he  already  had.  And  in  addition  he  would  have  to  pay 
for  Harry's  keep.  Not  only  must  he  engage  a  man  to 
do  his  work,  but  he  would  have  to  support  in  absolute 
idleness  Harry  himself.  He  was  quite  unfit  for  farm 
work,  he  would  be  nothing  but  an  expense  and  an 
incubus. 

In  those  dark  furious  hours,  Reuben  would  wish  his 
brother  had  died.  It  was  not  as  if  life  could  be  sweet 
to  him.  It  was  terrible  to  see  him  mouching  and 
mumbling  about  the  house,  to  hold  even  the  brief 
converse  with  him  which  everyday  life  enforced.  He 
had  not  as  yet  grown  used  to  his  blindness,  indeed  it 
would  be  difficult  for  him  to  do  so  without  wits  to  stimu- 
late and  direct  his  other  senses,  and  it  was  dreadful  to 
see  him  tumbling  over  furniture,  breaking  things  and 
crying  afterwards,  spilling  food  on  his  clothes  and  his 


54  SUSSEX    GORSE 

beard — for  now  that  he  could  not  shave  himself,  and 
others  had  no  time  to  do  it  for  him,  he  wore  a  large  fair 
beard,  which  added  to  his  uncouthness. 

Oh  that  his  brother  had  died  ! 

One  day  Reuben  was  so  tired  that  he  fell  asleep  over 
his  supper.  His  mother  cleared  the  table  round  him, 
glancing  at  him  with  fond,  submissive  eyes.  Each  day 
she  had  come  to  love  him  more,  with  an  obedient  love, 
almost  instinctive  and  elemental,  which  she  had  never 
felt  for  the  gentle  husband  or  considerate  son.  This 
evening  she  laid  her  shawl  over  his  shoulders,  and  went 
to  her  washing-up. 

Suddenly  a  weird  noise  came  from  the  parlour,  a 
strange  groaning  and  wailing.  Reuben  woke  up,  and 
rubbed  his  eyes.  What  was  that  ?  It  was  horrible,  it 
was  uncanny — and  for  him  it  also  had  that  terrifying 
unnaturalness  which  a  sudden  waking  gives  even  to  the 
most  ordinary  sounds. 

Then  gradually  out  of  the  horror  beauty  began  to 
grow.  The  sound  passed  into  an  air,  faltering  at  first, 
then  flowing — "  Dearest  Ellen,"  on  Harry's  violin. 

"  I'm  glad  he's  found  something  to  amuse  him,  poor 
soul,"  said  Mrs.  Backfield,  coming  in  to  see  if  Reuben 
had  waked. 

"  He's  not  playing  badly,  is  he,  mother  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  They  say  as  sometimes  blind  folk  are 
unaccountable  good  at  music." 

Reuben  did  not  answer  ;  she  knew  by  his  attitude — 
chin  in  hand — that  he  was  thinking. 

That  night  he  thought  it  out. 

Munds  of  Starvecrow  had  had  a  brother  who  fiddled 
at  fairs  and  weddings  and  earned,  so  Munds  said,  thirty 
pounds  a  year.  He  had  also  heard  of  others  who  made 
as  good  a  thing  of  it.  If  Harry  earned  thirty  pounds  a 
year  he  would  pay  the  wages  of  an  extra  farm-hand  and 
also  something  towards  his  own  keep.  They  must  find 
out  exactly  how  many  of  the  old  tunes  he  remem- 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       55 

bered,  and  get  somebody  musical  to  teach  him  new 
ones. 

The  idea  prospered  in  Reuben's  thoughts  that  night. 
The  next  morning  he  was  full  of  it,  and  confided  it  to  his 
mother  and  Naomi. 

Naomi,  a  little  paler  and  more  wistful  than  of  old, 
still  spent  an  occasional  day  or  two  at  Odiam.  At  first 
she  had  made  these  visits  for  Harry's  sake,  flattering 
herself  that  he  was  the  better  for  her  presence ;  then 
when  even  her  faith  began  to  fail,  she  still  came,  partly 
to  help  Mrs.  Backfield,  partly  driven  by  such  feelings  as 
might  drive  an  uneasy  ghost  to  haunt  the  house  of  his 
tragedy.  Reuben  saw  little  of  her,  for  his  work  claimed 
him,  but  he  liked  to  feel  she  was  there,  helping  his 
mother  with  work  which  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  carry 
through  alone  to  Odiam's  best  advantage. 

She  heard  of  Reuben's  plan  with  some  shrinking. 

"  He — he  wouldn't  like  it,"  she  stammered  after  a 
pause. 

"  You'll  never  go  sending  our  Harry  to  fiddle  at 
fairs,"  said  Mrs.  Backfield. 

"  Why  not  ?  There's  naun  shameful  in  it.  Munds's 
brother  did  it  for  twenty  years.  And  think  of  the 
difference  it'll  maake  to  us — thirty  pound  or  so  a  year, 
instead  of  the  dead  loss  of  Harry's  keep  and  the  wages 
of  an  extra  man  beside.  I  tell  you,  mother,  I  wur  fair 
sick  about  the  farm  till  I  thought  of  this." 

"  It's  always  the  farm  wud  you,  Reuben.  You  might 
sometimes  think  of  your  own  kin." 

"  I  tell  you  Harry  woan't  mind — he'll  like  it.  It'll 
be  something  to  occupy  him.  Besides,  hem  it  all, 
mother  !  you  can't  expect  me  to  kip  him  idling  here, 
wud  the  farm  scarce  started  yet,  and  nearly  the  whole  of 
Boarzell  still  to  buy." 

But  it  was  useless  to  expect  either  Mrs.  Backfield  or 
Naomi  to  appreciate  the  momentousness  of  his  task. 
Were  women  always,  he  wondered,  without  ambition  ? 


56  SUSSEX    GORSE 

However,  though  they  did  not  sympathise,  they  would 
not  oppose  him — Naomi  because  she  was  not  skilful  at 
opposition,  his  mother  because  he  was  gradually  taking 
the  place  of  Harry  in  her  heart. 

He  had  more  trouble  when  a  day  or  so  later  he  asked 
Naomi  to  inspect  Harry's  musical  equipment. 

"  You  see,  I  doan't  know  one  tune  from  another,  so  I 
can't  do  it  myself.  You  might  git  him  to  play  one  or  two 
things  over  to  you,  Naomi,  and  find  out  what  he 
remembers." 

"  I'd  rather  not,"  said  Naomi,  shuddering, 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh— I  just  can't." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

She  could  not  tell  him.  If  he  did  not  understand  how 
every  note  from  Harry's  violin  would  jab  and  tear  the 
tortured  memories  she  was  trying  to  put  to  sleep — if  he 
did  not  understand  that  of  himself,  she  would  never  be 
able  to  explain  it  to  him. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  he  did  understand,  but  he  was 
resolute. 

"  Help  me,  Naomi,"  he  pleaded,  "  fur  I  can't  manage 
wudout  you." 

His  eyes  searched  her  face.  People  who  met  him  only 
casually  were  generally  left  with  the  impression  that  he 
had  black  eyes,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  were  dark 
blue.  A  hidden  power  forced  Naomi's  eyes  to  meet 
them  .  .  .  they  were  narrow  and  deep-set,  with  extra- 
ordinarily long  lashes.  She  gazed  into  them  for  a 
moment  without  speaking.  Then  suddenly  her  own 
filled  with  an  expression  of  hatred,  and  she  ran  out  of 
the  room. 

But  he  had  won  his  point.  That  evening  Naomi  made 
Harry  play  over  his  "  tunes,"  while  Reuben  sat  in  the 
chimney  corner  watching  them  both.  Harry's  memory 
was  erratic — he  would  play  through  some  well-known 
airs  quite  correctly  up  to  a  certain  point,  and  then 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       57 

interpolate  hysterical  variations  of  his  own.  At  other 
times  memory  failed  him  altogether,  but  his  natural 
quickness  of  ear  seemed  to  have  increased  since  his 
blindness,  and  it  only  needed  Naomi  to  sing  the  passage 
over  for  him  to  fill  up  the  gaps. 

She  took  him  through  "  The  Woodpecker  Tapping," 
"  Dearest  Ellen/'  "I'd  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me/1 
"  The  Song  of  Seth's  House,"  and  "  The  Blue  Bells  of 
Scotland."  Each  one  of  them  was  torment  to  her 
gentle  heart,  as  it  woke  memory  after  memory  of  court- 
ship —  on  the  gorse-slopes  of  Boarzell,  among  the 
chasing  shadows  of  Iden  Wood,  on  the  Rother  marshes 
by  Thornsdale,  where  the  river  slinks  up  from  the  Five- 
watering  ...  or  in  this  very  kitchen  here,  where  the 
three  of  them,  divided  from  one  another  by  dizzy  gaps 
of  suffering,  desire  and  darkness,  were  gathered  together 
in  a  horrible  false  association. 

But  Harry's  face  was  blank,  no  memories  seemed  to 
stir  for  him,  he  just  fiddled  on,  now  and  then  receiving 
Naomi's  corrections  with  an  outbreak  of  childish  temper. 
On  these  occasions  Reuben  would  stamp  his  foot  and 
speak  to  him  in  a  loud,  angry  voice  which  inevitably 
made  him  behave  himself. 

Naomi  always  took  advantage  of  these  returns  to 
docility,  but  later  that  evening  in  the  dairy,  she  suddenly 
swung  round  on  Mrs.  Backfield  and  exclaimed  petu- 
lently  : 

"  I  hate  that  Ben  of  yours  !  " 


Harry  made  good  progress,  and  Reuben  decided  that 
he  was  to  start  his  career  at  the  October  Fair.  There 
had  been  a  fiddler  at  the  Fair  for  years,  partly  for  the 
lasses  and  lads  to  dance  to,  partly  for  the  less  Bacchic 
entertainments  of  their  elders.  It  was  at  the  Fair  that 
men  took  his  measure,  and  engaged  him  accordingly  for 
weddings  and  such  festivals.  Luck  would  have  it  that 


I 


58  SUSSEX    GORSE 

for  the  last  two  years  there  had  been  no  official  fiddler — 
old  Abel  Pinch  having  been  seduced  by  a  semi-urban 
show,  wtych  wandered  round  London,  camping  on  waste 
grounds  and  commons.  The  musical  element  had  been 
supplied  by  strays,  and  Reuben  had  no  doubt  but  that 
he  should  now  be  able  to  instal  his  brother  honourably 
as  chief  musician. 

He  advertised  him  in  the  neighbourhood  for  some 
weeks  beforehand,  and  gossip  ran  high.  Condemnation 
of  Backfield's  ruthlessness  in  exploiting  his  brother  was 
combined  with  a  furtive  admiration  of  his  smartness  as  a 
business  man.  It  was  extraordinary  how  little  he  cared 
about  "  lowering  himself,"  a  vital  matter  with  the  other 
farmers  of  his  position.  Just  as  he  had  thought  nothing 
of  working  his  own  farm  instead  of  indulging  in  the 
dignity  of  hired  labour,  so  he  thought  nothing  of 
making  money  at  Boarzell  Fair  with  the  gipsies  and 
pikers. 

Naomi  no  longer  protested.  For  one  thing  Harry 
seemed  to  like  his  fiddling,  and  was  quite  overjoyed  at 
the  prospect  of  playing  at  the  Fair.  Strangely  enough, 
he  remembered  the  Fair  and  its  jollities,  though  he  had 
forgotten  all  weightier  matters  of  life  and  love. 

"  Where  shall  I  stand  ? — by  the  gipsies'  tent  ? — or 
right  forrard  by  the  stalls  ?  I'd  like  to  stand  by  the 
stalls,  and  then  maybe  when  I'm  not  fiddling  they'll  give 
me  sweeties." 

(<  You  must  behave  yourself/'  said  Reuben,  in  the 
tones  he  would  have  used  to  a  child—"  you  mustn't  go 
vrothering  people  to  give  you  sweeties." 

"  I'll  give  you  some  sweeties,  Harry,"  said  Naomi. 

"  Oh,  will  you  ?— Then  I'll  love  you  !  " 

Naomi  turned  away  with  a  shudder,  her  eyes  full  of 
inexpressible  pain. 

Reuben  looked  after  her  as  she  went  out  of  the  room, 
then  he  took  a  couple  of  strides  and  ca,ught  her  up  in  the 
passage. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       59 

"  It's  I  who'm  taaking  you  to  the  Fair,  remember/' 
he  said,  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  Oh,  no  ...  I  couldn't  go  to  the  Fair." 

"  Nonsense — you're  coming  wud  me." 

"  Oh,  Ben,  don't  make  me  go." 

It  was  the  cry  of  her  weakness  to  his  purpose. 

"  I  shall  maake  you  .  .  .  dear." 

She  flung  herself  from  him,  and  ran  upstairs.  That 
night  at  supper  she  took  no  notice  of  him,  talking 
garrulously  all  the  time  to  Mrs.  Backfield. 

But  she  went  to  the  Fair. 

In  the  soft  grey  gown  that  the  first  of  the  cold 
demanded  she  walked  with  her  arm  through  Reuben's 
up  the  Moor.  Her  bonnet  was  the  colour  of  heather, 
tied  with  wide  ribbons  that  accentuated  the  milkiness 
of  her  chin.  Reuben  wore  his  Sunday  clothes — drab 
shorts  and  a  sprigged  waistcoat,  and  a  wide-brimmed 
hat  under  which  his  face  looked  strangely  handsome 
and  dark.  Harry  shuffled  along,  clutching  his  brother's 
coat-sleeve  to  guide  himself.  Mrs.  Backfield  preferred  to 
stay  at  home,  and  Reuben  had  not  tried  to  make  her 
come. 

All  Peasmarsh  went  to  the  Fair.  It  was  a  recognised 
holiday.  All  farm  work — except  the  most  barely 
necessary — was  put  aside,  and  the  ploughman  and 
dairymaid  rollicked  with  their  betters.  The  road  across 
Boarzell  was  dark  with  them,  coming  from  all  quarters 
— Playden,  Iden,  Beckley,  Northiam,  Bodiam — Old 
Turk's  Farm,  Baron's  Grange,  Corkwood,  Kitchenhour 
— even  from  Blackbrook  and  Ethnam  on  the  Kentish 
border. 

The  tents  and  stalls  were  blocked  as  usual  round  the 
central  crest  of  pines.  It  was  all  much  as  it  had  been 
five  years  ago  on  the  day  of  the  Riot.  There  was  the 
outer  fringe  of  strange  dwellings — tents  full  of  smoke 
and  sprawling  squalling  children,  tilt  carts  with  soup- 
pots  hanging  from  their  axles  over  little  fires,  and 


60  SUSSEX    GORSE 

gorgeously  painted  caravans  which  stood  out  aristo- 
cratically amidst  the  prevalent  sacking.  There  was  a 
jangle  of  voices — the  soft  Romany  of  the  gipsies,  the 
shriller  cant  of  the  pikers  and  half-breeds,  the  broad 
drawling  Sussex  of  the  natives.  Head  of  all  the  Fair, 
and  superintending  the  working  of  the  crazy  merry-go- 
round,  was  Gideon  Teazel,  a  rock-like  man,  son,  he  said, 
of  a  lord  and  a  woman  of  the  Rosamescros  or  Hearnes. 
He  stood  six  foot  eight  in  his  boots  and  could  carry  a 
heifer  across  his  shoulders.  His  wife  Aurora,  a  pure- 
bred gipsy,  told  fortunes,  and  was  mixed  up  in  more 
activities  than  would  appear  from  her  sleepy  manner  or 
her  invariable  position,  pipe  in  mouth,  on  the  steps  of 
her  husband's  caravan.  Gideon  loved  to  display  his 
devotion  for  her  by  grotesque  endearments  and 
elephantine  caresses — due  no  doubt  to  the  gaujo 
strain  in  him,  for  the  true  gipsies  always  treated  their 
women  in  public  as  chattels  or  beasts  of  burden,  though 
privately  they  were  entirely  under  their  thumbs. 

Reuben  brought  Naomi  and  Harry  into  the  middle  of 
the  Fair.  Many  people  stared  at  them.  It  was  Harry's 
first  public  appearance  since  his  illness,  and  one  or  two 
comments  louder  than  the  general  hum  came  to  Naomi's 
ears  and  made  them  pink. 

Harry  was  soon  established  on  the  upturned  cask 
beside  the  fighting  booth  which  had  always  been  the 
fiddler's  place.  He  began  to  play  at  once — "  Nice 
Young  Maidens  " — to  all  appearances  quite  indifferent 
to  the  jostle  round  him.  Naomi  could  not  help  marvelling 
at  Reuben,  too— he  was  so  cool,  possessed  and  assured, 
so  utterly  without  anything  in  the  way  of  embarrassment 
or  self-consciousness. 

Wonder  was  succeeded  by  wrath — how  dare  he  be 
calm  in  the  face  of  such  terrible  things  ?  She  tried  to 
pull  her  hand  out  of  his  arm,  but  he  held  his  elbow  close 
to  his  side,  and  the  little  hand  lay  there  like  an  im- 
prisoned mouse. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT      61 

"  Let's  go  away/'  she  whispered,  half  nervously  and 
half  angrily,  "  I  hate  standing  here/' 

"  I  want  to  see  how  he's  going  to  manage,"  said 
Reuben.  "  What '11  he  do  when  he  comes  to  the  end  of 
this  tune  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  let's  go  away." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  stood  there  imperturbable, 
till  Harry,  having  successfully  finished  "  Nice  Young 
Maidens,"  started  "  The  Woodpecker  Tapping  "  without 
any  ado. 

"  He's  safe  enough  now — we  may  as  well  go  and  have 
a  look  round." 

Naomi  followed  him  out  of  the  little  crowd  which  had 
grouped  round  Harry,  and  they  wandered  into  the 
Panorama  tent  to  see  the  show.  After  having  sat  for 
half  an  hour  on  a  crowded  bench,  in  an  atmosphere 
thick  with  foul  tobacco  and  the  smell  of  clothes  long 
stored  away — watching  "  The  Coronation  of  Queen 
Victoria  "  and  "  Scenery  on  the  West  Coast  of  Scot- 
land "  rumble  slowly  past  with  many  creaks — they 
moved  on  to  the  sparring  booth,  where  Buck  Washing- 
ton, now  a  little  knotted  and  disabled  by  a  bout  of 
rheumatism,  arranged  scraps  between  the  ploughboys 
of  the  neighbouring  farms. 

Unluckily,  the  object  of  sparring,  as  practised  locally, 
was  to  draw  as  much  blood  from  the  adversary  as 
possible.  The  combatants  went  straight  for  each 
others'  noses,  in  spite  of  the  conjurations  of  Buck,  and 
Naomi  soon  exercised  her  privilege  as  a  town  girl,  and 
said  she  felt  faint.  Reuben  took  her  out,  and  they 
walked  round  the  stalls,  at  one  of  which  he  bought  her 
a  cherry  ribbon  for  her  fairing.  At  another  they  bought 
gingerbread.  Gradually  her  spirits  began  to  revive — 
she  applauded  his  power  at  the  shooting  gallery,  and 
when  they  came  to  the  cocoanut  shie,  she  was  laughing 
out  loud. 

Reuben  seemed  to  have  an  endless  supply  of  money. 


62  SUSSEX    GORSE 

He,  whom  she  had  seen  deny  himself  white  bread  and 
tobacco,  and  scold  his  mother  if  she  used  eggs  to  make 
a  pudding,  did  not  seem  now  to  care  how  much  he  spent 
for  her  amusement.  He  vowed,  laughing,  that  she 
should  not  leave  the  shie  till  she  had  brought  down  a 
nut,  and  the  showman  pocketed  pennies  till  he  grinned 
from  ear  to  ear,  while  Naomi  threw  the  wooden  balls  in 
all  directions,  hitting  the  showman  and  the  spectators 
and  once  even  Reuben  himself.  At  last  he  took  her  arm, 
and  putting  himself  behind  her  managed  after  one  or 
two  attempts  to  guide  a  successful  throw.  They  went 
off  laughing  with  her  prize,  and  came  once  more  to  the 
open  ground  where  Harry  was  still  playing  his  fiddle. 

Evidently  he  had  pleased  the  multitude,  for  there  was 
now  a  thick  crowd  in  the  central  space,  and  already 
dancing  had  begun.  Farm-hands  in  clean  smocks,  with 
bright-coloured  handkerchiefs  round  their  necks,  gam- 
bolled uncouthly  with  farm-girls  in  spotted  and  striped 
muslins.  Young  farmers'  wives,  stiff  with  the  sedate- 
ness  of  their  bridehead,  were  drawn  into  reluctant 
capers.  Despairing  virgins  renewed  their  hope,  and 
tried  wives  their  liveliness  in  unaccustomed  arms.  Even 
the  elders  danced,  stumping  together  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  whirl  as  long  as  their  breath  allowed  them. 

Harry  played  "  The  Song  of  Seth's  House/'  which  in 
spite  of — or  because  of — its  sadness  was  a  good  dancing 
tune.  There  was  no  definite  step,  just  anything  the 
dancers  fancied.  Some  kicked  up  their  heels  vigorously, 
others  slid  them  sedately,  some  held  their  partners  by 
the  hand,  others  with  both  arms  round  their  waist. 

Then  suddenly  Naomi  found  herself  in  the  thick  of 
the  crowd,  at  once  crushed  and  protected  by  Reuben's 
six  foot  three  of  strength.  At  first  she  was  shocked, 
chilled — she  had  never  danced  at  a  fair  before,  and  it 
seemed  dreadful  to  be  dancing  here  with  Reuben  while 
Harry  fiddled.  But  gradually  the  jovial  movement, 
the  vigour  and  gay  spirits  of  her  partner,  wore  down  her 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       63 

reluctance.  Once  more  she  was  impressed  by  that 
entire  absence  of  self-consciousness  and  false  pride  which 
characterised  him.  After  all,  why  should  they  not  dance 
here  together  ?  Why  should  they  stand  glum  while 
everyone  else  was  merrymaking  ?  Harry  did  not  notice 
them,  and  if  he  did  he  would  not  care. 

"  The  blackbird  flew  out  from  the  eaves  of  the  Manor, 

The  Manor  of  Seth  in  the  Sussex  countrie, 
And  he  carried  a  prayer  from  the  lad  of  the  Manor, 
A  prayer  and  a  tear  to  his  faithless  ladie." 

She  found  herself  bending  to  the  rhythm  of  the  music, 
swaying  in  Reuben's  arms.  He  held  her  lightly,  and  it 
was  wonderful  how  clever  he  was  in  avoiding  concussion 
with  the  other  dancers,  most  of  whom  bumped  about 
regardless  of  anybody  else. 

"  To  the  lady  who  lives  in  the  Grange  by  the  water, 

The  water  of  Iron  in  the  Sussex  countrie, 
The  lad  of  Seth's  House  prays  for  comfort  and  pity — 
Have  pity,  my  true  love,  have  pity  on  me  !  " 

A  sudden  weariness  passed  over  Naomi,  and  Reuben 
led  her  out  of  the  dance  and  brought  her  a  drink  of  mild 
icy  ale.  He  did  not  offer  to  take  her  home,  and  she  did 
not  ask  to  go.  If  he  had  offered  she  would  have  gone, 
but  she  had  no  will  of  her  own — all  desire,  all  initiative 
was  drowned  in  the  rhythm  of  the  dance  and  the  sad- 
ness of  the  old  tune. 

"  O  why  when  we  loved  like  the  swallows  in  April, 

Should  beauty  forget  now  their  nests  have  grown  cold  ? 
O  why  when  we  kissed  'mid  the  ewes  on  the  hanger, 

Should  you  turn  from  me  now  that  they  winter  in  fold  ?  " 

He  led  her  back  into  the  crowd,  and  once  more  she 
felt  his  arms  round  her,  so  light,  so  strong,  while  her 
feet  spun  with  his,  tricked  by  magic.  She  became 
acutely  conscious  of  his  presence — the  roughness  of  his 
coat-sleeve,  the  faint  scent  of  the  sprigged  waistcoat, 
which  had  been  folded  away  in  lavender.  And  all  the 


64  SUSSEX    GORSE 

while  she  had  another  picture  of  him  in  her  heart,  not 
in  his  Sunday  best,  but  in  corduroys  and  the  blue  shirt 
which  had  stood  out  of  the  January  dusk,  the  last 
piece  of  colour  in  the  day.  She  remembered  the  swing 
of  his  arm,  the  crash  of  the  axe  on  the  trunk,  the  bend- 
ing of  his  back  as  he  pulled  it  out,  the  muscles  swelled 
under  the  skin  .  .  .  and  then  the  tingling  creep  in  her 
own  heart,  that  sudden  suffocating  thrill  which  had 
come  to  her  there  beside  Harry  in  the  gloam.  .  .  . 

The  dusk  was  falling  now,  splashed  by  crude  flares 
over  the  stalls,  and  once  more  that  creep — delicious, 
tingling,  suffocating — was  in  her  heart,  the  intoxication 
of  the  weak  by  the  strong.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were 
holding  her  closer.  She  grew  warm,  and  yet  she  would 
not  stop.  There  was  sweat  on  her  forehead,  she  felt 
her  woollen  gown  sticking  to  her  shoulders — but  she 
would  not  rest.  The  same  old  tune  jigged  on — it  was 
good  to  dance  to,  and  Harry  liked  playing  it. 

"  O  why,  because  sickness  hath  wasted  my  body, 

Should  you  do  me  to  death  with  your  dark  treacherie  ? 
O  why,  because  brothers  and  friends  all  have  left  me, 
Should  you  leave  me  too,  O  my  faithless  ladie  ?  " 

The  dance  was  becoming  more  of  a  rout.  Hats  fell 
back,  even  Naomi's  heather  -  coloured  bonnet  became 
disorderly.  Kerchiefs  were  crumpled  and  necks  bare. 
Arms  grew  tighter,  there  were  few  merely  clasping 
hands  now.  Then  a  lad  kissed  his  partner  on  the  neck 
while  they  danced,  and  soon  another  couple  were 
spinning  round  with  lips  clinging  together.  The  girls' 
hair  grew  rough  and  blew  in  their  boys'  eyes — there 
were  sounds  of  panting — of  kissing — Naomi  grew  giddy, 
round  her  was  a  whirl  of  colour,  hands,  faces,  the  dusk 
and  flaring  lights.  She  clung  closer  to  Reuben,  and  his 
arms  tightened  about  her. 

"  One  day  when  your  pride  shall  have  brought  you  to  sorrow, 
And  years  of  despair  and  remorse  been  your  fate, 

Perhaps  your  cold  heart  will  remember  Seth's  Manor, 
And  turn  to  your  true  love — and  find  it  too  late." 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       65 

§12. 

Reuben  was  pleased  with  the  results  of  that  Fair 
Day.  Harry  had  been  a  complete  success.  Even  on 
the  day  itself  he  was  engaged  to  fiddle  at  a  local  wedding, 
and  thenceforth  no  festival  was  complete  without  him. 
He  became  the  fashion  in  Peasmarsh.  His  birth  and 
family  gave  proceedings  an  air  of  gentility,  and  his 
tragic  story  imparted  romance.  Also  his  real  musical 
gifts  were  appreciated  by  some,  as  well  as  his  tireless- 
ness  and  good  nature.  Occasionally  he  would  have 
fits  of  crazy  ill-temper,  but  only  required  firm  handling. 
Reuben  saw  that  his  brother,  instead  of  being  entirely 
on  the  debit  side  of  Odiam's  accounts,  would  add 
materially  to  its  revenues.  He  became  exceedingly 
kind  to  Harry,  and  gave  him  apples  and  sweets. 

That  autumn  he  had  sown  his  oats.  He  sowed 
English  Berlie,  after  wavering  for  some  time  between 
that  and  Barbachlaw.  Quantities  of  rape  cake  had 
been  delivered  in  the  furrows  with  the  seed,  and  now 
the  fields  lay,  to  the  eye,  wet  and  naked — to  the  soul,  to 
Reuben's  farmer-soul,  full  of  the  hidden  promise  which 
should  sprout  with  May. 

He  had  a  man  to  help  him  on  the  farm,  Beatup,  an 
uncouth  coltish  lad,  with  an  unlimited  capacity  for  work. 
Reuben  never  let  him  touch  the  new  ground,  but  kept 
him  busy  in  barn  and  yard  with  the  cattle.  Mrs.  Back- 
field  worked  in  the  house  as  usual,  and  she  now  also 
had  charge  of  the  poultry ;  for  Reuben  having  given 
them  up  to  her  when  he  was  single-handed,  had  not 
taken  them  back — he  had  to  look  after  Beatup,  who 
wanted  more  watching  than  Harry,  and  he  also  had 
bought  two  more  pigs  as  money-makers.  He  was  saving, 
stinting,  scraping  to  buy  more  land. 

Mrs.  Backfield  sometimes  had  Naomi  to  help  her. 
Naomi  often  came  to  stay  at  Odiam.  She  did  not  know 
why  she  came ;  it  was  not  for  love  of  Mrs.  Backfield, 


66  SUSSEX    GORSE 

and  the  sight  of  Harry  wrung  her  heart.  She  had  fits 
of  weeping  alternating  with  a  happy  restlessness. 

Ever  since  the  day  of  the  Fair  a  strange  feeling  had 
possessed  her,  sometimes  just  for  fitful  moments,  some- 
times for  long  days  of  panic — the  feeling  of  being 
pursued.  She  felt  herself  being  hunted,  slowly,  but 
inevitably,  by  one  a  dozen  times  more  strong,  more 
knowing,  more  stealthy  than  herself.  She  heard  his 
footsteps  in  the  night,  creeping  after  her  down  long 
labyrinths  of  thought,  sometimes  his  shadow  sped 
before  her  with  her  own.  And  she  knew  that  one  day  he 
would  seize  her — though  she  struggled,  wept  and  fled, 
she  knew  that  one  day  she  would  be  his  at  last,  and  of 
her  own  surrender.  The  awful  part  of  that  seizing 
would  be  that  it  would  be  a  matter  of  her  will  as  well 
as  his.  .  .  . 

She  was  afraid  of  Reuben,  she  fled  before  him  like  a 
poor  little  lamb,  trembling  and  bleating — and  yet  she 
would  sometimes  long  for  the  inevitable  day  when  he 
would  grasp  her  and  fling  her  across  his  shoulders. 

She  could  not  discipline  her  attitude  towards  him — 
sometimes  she  was  composed,  distant  even  in  her 
thoughts ;  at  others  a  kind  of  delirious  excitement 
possessed  her,  she  flushed  and  held  down  her  head  in 
his  presence,  could  not  speak  to  him,  and  groped  blindly 
for  escape.  She  would,  on  these  occasions,  end  by  return- 
ing to  Rye,  but  away  from  Reuben  a  restless  misery 
tormented  her,  driving  her  back  to  Odiam. 

She  sometimes  asked  herself  if  she  loved  him,  and  in 
cold  blood  there  was  only  one  answer  to  that  question 
— No.  What  she  felt  for  him  was  not  love,  but  obsession 
— if  she  had  never  loved  she  might  have  mistaken  it, 
but  with  her  memories  of  Harry  she  could  not.  And  the 
awful  part  of  it  was  that  her  heart  was  still  Harry's, 
though  everything  else  was  Reuben's.  Her  desires,  her 
thoughts,  her  will  were  all  Reuben's — by  a  slow  remorse- 
less process  he  was  making  them  his  own — but  her  heart, 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       67 

the  loving,  suffering  part  of  her,  was  still  Harry's,  and 
might  always  be  his. 

She  was  not  continuously  conscious  of  this — some- 
times she  forgot  Harry,  sometimes  he  repulsed  her, 
often  she  was  afraid  of  him.  But  in  moments  of  quiet 
her  heart  always  gave  her  the  same  message,  like  distant 
music,  drowned  in  a  storm. 

One  day  she  was  in  the  dairy  at  Odiam,  skimming  the 
cream-pans.  The  sunshine,  filtered  to  a  watery  yellow 
by  the  March  afternoon,  streamed  in  on  her,  putting  a 
yellow  tinge  into  her  white  skin  and  white  apron.  Her 
hair  was  the  colour  of  fresh  butter,  great  pats  and  cakes 
of  which  stood  on  the  slabs  beside  her.  There  was  a 
smell  of  butter  and  standing  milk  in  the  cold,  rather 
damp  air.  Naomi  skimmed  the  cream  off  the  pans  and 
put  it  into  a  brown  bowl. 

Suddenly  she  realised  that  Reuben  had  come  into  the 
dairy,  and  was  standing  beside  her,  a  little  way  behind. 

"  Hullo,  Ben,"  she  said  nervously — it  was  one  of  her 
nervous  days. 

"  How's  the  cream  to-day  ?  " 

"  Capital." 

He  dipped  his  finger  into  the  pan,  and  sucked  it. 

"  Oughtn't  it  to  stand  a  bit  longer  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Taste  it " 

He  dipped  his  finger  again,  and  suddenly  thrust  it 
between  her  lips. 

She  drew  her  head  away  almost  angrily,  and  moved 
to  the  next  pan. 

Then  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  quite  roughly  on  the 
neck,  close  to  the  nape. 

She  cried  out  and  turned  round  on  him,  but  he  walked 
out  of  the  dairy. 

For  a  moment  Naomi  stood  stockish,  conscious  only 
of  two  sensations  in  her  body — the  taste  of  cream  on 
her  lips,  and  a  little  cold  place  at  the  back  of  her  neck. 


68  SUSSEX    GORSE 

She  began  to  tremble,  then  suddenly  the  colour  left  her 
cheeks,  for  in  the  doorway  of  the  wash-house,  three 
yards  off,  stood  Harry. 

He  did  not  move,  and  for  some  unaccountable  reason 
she  felt  sure  that  he  knew  Reuben  had  kissed  her.  A 
kind  of  sickness  crept  up  to  her  heart ;  she  held  out  her 
hands  before  her,  and  tottered  a  little.  She  felt  faint. 

"  Harry  !  "  she  called. 

He  came  shuffling  up  to  her,  and  for  a  moment  stood 
straining  his  blind  eyes  into  her  face. 

"  Harry — will  you — will  you  take  this  basin  of  cream 
to  your  mother  ?  " 

He  was  still  looking  into  her  eyes,  and  she  was  visited 
by  a  terrible  feeling  that  came  to  her  sometimes  and 
went  as  quickly — that  he  was  not  so  mad  as  people 
thought. 

"  Will  you  take  it  ?  " 

He  nodded. 

She  gave  him  the  cream  bowl.  Their  hands  acci- 
dentally touched  ;  she  pulled  hers  away,  and  the  bowl 
fell  and  was  broken. 

§13. 

The  next  day  Naomi  left  for  Rye,  where  she  stayed 
three  weeks.  She  was  mistaken,  however,  in  thinking 
she  had  found  a  place  of  refuge,  the  hunt  still  went  on. 
Reuben  knew  that  his  kiss  had  given  him  a  definite 
position  with  regard  to  her,  and  Naomi  knew  that  he 
knew.  Twice  he  came  over  and  visited  her  at  Rye. 
He  never  attempted  to  kiss  her  again,  and  carefully 
avoided  all  talk  of  love.  Indeed,  her  father  was  generally 
in  the  room.  He  was  much  taken  with  young  Backfield, 
who  was  ready  to  talk  shipping  and  harbour-work  with 
him  for  hours. 

"  He's  a  solider  man  than  ever  poor  Harry  was," 
said  old  Gasson  to  Naomi,  "  more  dependable,  I  should 
think.  Reckon  he'll  do  well  for  himself  at  Odiam. 
She'll  be  a  lucky  girl  whom  he  marries." 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT       69 

Naomi  had  no  mother. 

Reuben  was  pleased  with  the  impression  he  had 
made.  He  was  now  working  definitely.  At  first  he  had 
merely  drifted,  drawn  by  the  charm  of  the  female 
creature,  so  delicate,  soft  and  weak.  Then  common- 
sense  had  taken  the  rudder — he  had  seen  Naomi's 
desirableness  from  a  practical  point  of  view ;  she  was 
young,  good-looking,  sound  if  scarcely  robust,  well 
dowered,  and  of  good  family — fit  in  every  way  to  be  the 
mother  of  his  children.  Since  Harry  was  debarred  from 
marrying  her,  his  brother  could  even  more  profitably 
take  his  place.  Her  money  would  then  go  direct  to  his 
ambition ;  he  realised  the  enormous  advantage  of  a 
little  reserve  capital  and  longed  for  a  relaxation  of 
financial  strain.  The  Gassons  were  an  old  and  respected 
family,  and  an  alliance  with  them  would  give  lustre  to 
Odiam.  Also  he  wanted  children.  He  was  fond  of  Naomi 
for  her  own  sake.  Poor  little  chicken  !  Her  weakness 
appealed  to  him,  and  he  rather  enjoyed  seeing  her 
fluttering  before  his  feet. 

Towards  the  middle  of  April  she  came  back  to  the 
farm  to  help  Mrs.  Backfield  with  her  house  -  cleaning. 
She  clung  to  the  older  woman  all  day,  but  she  knew 
that  Reuben  would  at  last  find  her  alone. 

He  did.  She  was  laying  the  supper  while  Mrs.  Back- 
field  finished  mending  a  curtain  upstairs,  when  he 
marched  suddenly  into  the  room.  He  had  come  in  from 
the  yard,  and  his  clothes  smelt  of  the  cow-stalls  and  of 
the  manure  that  he  loved.  His  face  was  moist ;  he 
stood  in  front  of  her  and  mopped  his  brow. 

"  I'm  hungry,  Naomi.    Wot  have  you  got  fur  me  ?  " 

"  There's  eggs  ..." 

"  Wot  else  ?  " 

"  Bread  .  .  .  cheese  .  .  ." 

She  could  scarcely  frame  the  homely  words.  For 
some  unaccountable  reason  she  felt  afraid,  felt  like  some 
poor  creature  in  a  trap. 


TO  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Wot  else  ?  " 

"  That's  all." 

"  All !  But  I'm  still  hungry.  Wot  more  do  you  think 
I  want  ?  " 

She  licked  her  lips. 

He  leaned  over  the  table  towards  her. 

"  Wot  more  have  you  got  fur  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  I — I'm  going  upstairs.  Let  me  pass, 
please." 

"  Maybe  I  want  a  kiss." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  she  cried,  trying  to  edge  between  him 
and  the  wall. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  she  felt  the 
warmth  and  heaviness  of  them,  and  was  more  frightened 
than  ever  because  she  liked  it. 

"  Maybe  I  want  more  than  a  kiss." 

She  was  leaning  against  the  wall,  if  he  had  released 
her  she  could  not  have  run  away.  She  was  like  a  rabbit, 
paralysed  with  fear. 

He  bent  towards  her  and  his  lips  closed  on  hers.  She 
nearly  fainted,  but  she  did  not  struggle  or  try  to  scream. 
It  seemed  years  that  they  stood  linked  by  that  unwilling 
kiss.  At  last  he  raised  his  head. 

"  WiU  you  marry  me,  Naomi  ?  " 

<«  NO Oh,  no  !  " 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  No — no — I  can't — I  won't !  " 

Strength  came  to  her  suddenly  ;  it  was  like  awaking 
from  a  nightmare.  She  thrust  him  from  her,  slipped 
past,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

The  next  morning  she  returned  to  Rye.  But  she  could 
not  stay  there.  Her  heart  was  all  restlessness  and  dis- 
satisfaction. Soon  Mrs.  Backfield  announced  that  she 
was  coming  back. 

"  I  reckoned  she  would,"  said  Reuben. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT      71 

She  arrived  in  the  swale.  A  tender  grey  mist  was  in 
the  air,  smeething  Boarzell,  mingling  with  the  smoke  of 
Odiam  chimneys,  that  curled  out  wood-scented  into  the 
dark.  As  Naomi  climbed  from  the  carrier's  cart  which 
had  brought  her,  she  smelled  the  daffodils  each  side  of 
the  garden  path.  The  evening  was  full  of  pale  per- 
fumes, of  ghostly  yellows,  massing  faintly  amidst  the 
grey. 

Reuben  stood  in  the  doorway  and  watched  her  come 
up  the  path,  herself  dim  and  ghostly,  like  the  twilight 
and  the  flowers.  When  she  was  close  he  held  out  his 
arms  to  her,  and  she  fell  on  his  breast. 

§14- 

From  thenceforward  there  was  no  looking  back. 
Preparations  for  the  wedding  began  at  once.  Old 
Gasson  was  delighted,  and  dowered  his  girl  generously. 
As  for  Naomi,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  joys  of  bride- 
elect.  Her  position  as  Reuben's  betrothed  was  much 
more  important  than  as  Harry's.  It  was  more  definite, 
more  exalted,  the  ultimate  marriage  loomed  more 
largely  and  more  closely  in  it.  She  and  Reuben  were 
not  so  much  sweethearts  as  husband  and  wife  to  be. 
Their  present  semi-attached  state  scarcely  counted,  it 
was  just  an  unavoidable  interval  of  preparation  for  a 
more  definite  relationship. 

She  was  glad  in  a  way  that  everything  was  so  different, 
glad  that  Reuben's  love-making  was  so  utterly  unlike 
Harry's.  Otherwise  she  could  never  have  plunged 
herself  so  deep  into  forgetfulness.  She  was  quite  with- 
out regrets — she  could  never  have  imagined  she  could 
be  so  free  of  them.  She  lived  for  the  present,  and  for 
the  future  which  was  not  her  own.  She  was  at  rest. 
No  longer  the  pursuing  feet  came  after  her,  making  her 
life  a  nightmare  of  long  flights — she  was  safe  in  her 
captor's  grasp,  borne  homeward  on  his  shoulder. 


72  SUSSEX    GORSE 

She  was  not  exalt edly  happy  or  wildly  expectant. 
Her  anticipations  were  mostly  material,  buyings  and 
stitchings.  She  looked  forward  to  her  position  as 
mistress  of  Odiam,  and  stocked  her  linen  cupboard.  As 
for  Reuben,  her  attitude  towards  him  had  changed  at 
once  with  surrender.  If  he  no  longer,  terrified,  also  he 
no  longer  thrilled.  She  had  grown  fond  of  him,  peace- 
fully and  domestically  so,  in  a  way  she  could  never 
have  been  fond  of  Harry.  She  loved  to  feel  his  strong 
arm  round  her,  his  shoulder  under  her  head,  she  loved 
to  nestle  close  up  to  him  and  feel  his  warmth.  His 
kisses  were  very  different  from  Harry's,  more  lingering, 
more  passionate,  but,  paradoxically,  they  thrilled  her 
less.  There  had  always  been  a  touch  of  the  wild  and 
elfin  in  Harry's  love-making  which  suggested  an  adven- 
ture in  fairyland,  whereas  Reuben's  suggested  nothing 
but  earth,  and  the  earth  is  not  exciting  to  those  who 
have  been  in  faery. 

At  last  the  wedding-day  came — an  afternoon  in  May, 
gloriously  white  and  blue.  Naomi  stood  before  her 
mirror  with  delicious  qualms,  while  one  or  two  girl 
friends  took  the  place  of  her  mother  and  helped  her  to 
dress.  She  wore  white  silk,  very  full  in  the  skirt,  with  a 
bunch  of  lilies  of  the  valley  in  the  folds  of  the  bodice, 
which  was  cut  low,  showing  the  soft  neck  that  in  con- 
trast to  the  dead  white  of  the  silk  had  taken  a  delicious 
creamy  cowslip  tint.  Her  lovable  white  hat  was  trimmed 
with  artificial  lilies  of  the  valley,  and  she  had  white  kid 
gloves  and  tiny  white  kid  shoes. 

She  was  very  happy,  and  if  she  thought  of  Harry  and 
what  might  have  been,  it  only  brought  a  delightful  sad- 
smiling  melancholy  over  her  happiness  like  a  bridal 
veil. 

"  How  do  I  look  ?  "  she  asked  her  friends. 

"  You  look  charming  !  " — "  how  well  your  hat 
becomes  you  !  " — "  how  small  your  feet  seem  in  your 
new  shoes  !  " — "  how  sweet  you  smell !  " — chorused 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT     73 

the  girls,  loving  her  more  than  ever  because  they 
envied  her,  after  the  manner  of  girls. 

Naomi  walked  to  church  on  her  father's  arm.  She 
held  her  head  down,  and  her  bridesmaids  saw  her  neck 
grow  pink  below  the  golden  fluff  on  the  nape.  She  hid 
her  face  from  Reuben  and  would  not  look  at  him  as 
they  stood  side  by  side  before  Rye  altar.  No  one  could 
hear  her  responses,  they  were  spoken  so  faintly ;  she 
was  the  typical  Victorian  bride,  all  shy,  trembling,  and 
blushing. 

Only  once  she  dared  look  up,  and  that  was  when  they 
were  walking  solemnly  from  the  communion  table  to 
the  vestry — then  she  suddenly  looked  up  and  saw 
Reuben's  great  strong  shoulder  towering  above  her 
own,  his  face  rather  flushed  under  its  sunburn, 
and  his  hair  unusually  sleek  and  shining  with 
some  oil. 

They  did  not  speak  to  each  other  till  he  had  her  in 
his  gig,  driving  up  Playden  Hill.  Then  he  muttered — 
"  Liddle  Naomi — my  wife/'  and  kissed  her  on  the  neck 
and  lips.  She  did  not  want  him  to  kiss  her,  because  she 
wished  to  avoid  crumpling  her  gown,  and  also  she  was 
afraid  Reuben's  horse  might  choose  that  moment  to 
kick  or  run  away.  But  of  course  such  reasons  did  not 
appeal  to  him,  and  it  was  a  dishevelled  and  rather  cross 
little  bride  whom  he  lifted  out  at  Odiam. 

The  wedding  supper  was  to  be  held  at  the  bridegroom's 
house,  as  old  Gasson's  rooms  were  not  large  enough,  and 
he  objected  to  "  having  the  place  messed  up."  During 
the  marriage  service  Mrs.  Backfield  had  been  worrying 
about  her  pie-crusts — indeed  she  almost  wished  she  had 
stayed  at  home.  Naomi  helped  her  dish  up  the  supper, 
while  Reuben  received  the  guests  who  were  beginning 
to  arrive,  some  from  Rye,  some  from  the  neighbouring 
farms.  There  had  been  a  certain  amount  of  disgusted 
comment  when  it  became  known  that  Backfield  was 
marrying  his  brother's  sweetheart ;  but  criticism  of 


74  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Reuben  always  ended  in  reluctant  admiration  for  his 
smartness  as  a  business  man. 

"  He'll  go  far,  that  young  feller/'  said  Realf  of  Grand- 
turzel. 

"  Where's  Harry  ?  "  Vennal  asked. 

"  Sh-sh — doan't  you  go  asking  ork'ard  questions." 

"  They  woan't  have  him  to  fiddle,  I  reckon,"  said 
Realf. 

"  I  shud  say  even  young  Ben  wudn't  do  that." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  put  in  Ditch — "  he  doan't  know  naun 
about  it.  He's  forgotten  she  ever  wur  his  girl." 

"  You  can't  be  sure  o'  that,  Mus'  Ditch — only  the 
Lard  knows  wot  mad  folkses  remember  and  wot  they 
forget.  But  there's  the  supper  ready  ;  git  moving  or 
we'll  have  to  sit  by  the  door." 

Odiam's  strict  rule  had  been  relaxed  in  honour  of  the 
wedding,  and  a  lavish,  not  to  say  luxurious,  meal 
covered  two  long  tables  laid  end  to  end  across  the 
kitchen.  There  was  beef  and  mutton,  there  was  stew, 
there  were  apple  and  gooseberry  pies,  and  a  few  cone- 
shaped  puddings,  pink  and  white  and  brown,  giving  an 
aristocratic  finish  to  the  supper. 

Naomi  and  Reuben  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  Mr. 
Gasson  and  Mrs.  Backfield  on  either  side  of  them.  Harry 
was  not  present,  for  his  methods  of  feeding  made  him 
rather  a  disgusting  object  at  meals.  Naomi  had  put 
herself  tidy,  but  somehow  she  still  felt  disordered  and 
flustered.  She  hated  all  this  materialism  encroaching 
on  her  romance.  The  sight  of  the  fanners  pushing  for 
places  at  the  table  filled  her  with  disgust — the  slightest 
things  upset  her,  the  untidy  appearance  of  the  dishes 
after  they  had  been  helped,  some  beer  stains  on  the 
cloth,  even  her  husband's  hearty  appetite  and  not  quite 
noiseless  eating.  The  room  soon  became  insufferably 
hot,  and  she  felt  herself  getting  damp  and  sticky — a 
most  unlovely  condition  for  a  bride. 

When  the  actual  feeding  was  over  there  were  speeches 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE   FIGHT       75 

and  toasts.  Vennal  of  Burntbarns  proposed  the  health 
of  the  bride,  and  Realf  of  Grandturzel  that  of  the  groom. 
Then  Mrs.  Backfield's  health  was  drunk,  then  Mr. 
Gasson's.  There  were  more  toasts,  and  some  songs — 
"  Oh,  no,  I  never  mention  her/'  "  The  Sussex  Whistling 
Song/'  and  old  farmhouse  ballads,  such  as : 

"  Our  maid  she  would  a  hunting  go, 

She'd  never  a  horse  to  ride  ; 
She  mounted  on  her  master's  boar, 

And  spurred  him  on  the  side. 
Chink  !    chink  !    chink  !    the  bridle  went, 

As  she  rode  o'er  the  downs. 
So  here's  unto  our  maiden's  health, 
Drink  round,  my  boys  !   drink  round  !  " 

Naomi  felt  bored  and  sick ;  twice  she  yawned,  and  she 
stretched  her  tired  shoulders  under  her  dress.  At  last 
Reuben  noticed  her  discomfort. 

"  You're  tired — you'd  better  go  to  bed,"  he  whispered, 
and  she  at  once  gladly  rose  and  slipped  away,  though 
she  would  not  have  gone  without  his  suggestion. 

"  Can  I  help  you,  dear  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Backfield 
as  she  passed  her  chair.  But  Naomi  wanted  to  be 
alone. 

She  stole  out  of  the  kitchen  into  the  peace  of  the  dark 
house,  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  found  the  right  door  in  the 
unlighted  passage.  The  bedroom  was  very  big  and  cold, 
and  on  the  threshold  she  wrinkled  up  her  nose  at  a 
strange  scent,  something  like  hay  and  dry  flowers. 

She  groped  her  way  to  the  chimney-piece  and  found 
a  candle  and  a  tinder-box.  The  next  minute  a  tiny 
throbbing  flame  fought  unsuccessfully  with  the  darkness 
which  still  massed  in  the  corners  and  among  the  cum- 
brous bits  of  furniture.  Naomi's  new  kid  shoes  were 
hurting  her,  and  she  bent  down  to  untie  them ;  but  even 
as  she  bent,  her  eyes  were  growing  used  to  the  dim 
light,  and  she  noticed  something  queer  about  the  room. 
She  lifted  her  head  and  saw  that  the  outlines  of  the 


76  SUSSEX    GORSE 

dressing-table  and  bed  were  rough  .  .  .  the  scent  of  dry 
grass  suddenly  revolted  her. 

She  looked  round,  and  this  time  she  saw  clearly. 
About  the  mirror,  along  the  bed-head,  and  garlanding 
the  posts,  were  crude  twists  and  lumps  of  field  flowers 
— dandelions  buttercups,  moon  daisies,  oxlips,  fennel, 
and  cow-parsley,  all  bunched  up  with  hay  grass,  all  dry, 
withered,  rotting,  and  malodorous.  There  was  a  great 
sheaf  of  them  on  her  pillow,  an  armful  torn  up  from  a 
hay-field,  still  smelling  of  the  sun  that  had  blasted  it.  ... 

In  a  flash  Naomi  knew  who  had  put  them  there.  No 
sane  mind  could  have  conceived  such  a  decoration  or 
seeing  eyes  directed  it.  Harry,  exiled  from  church  and 
feast,  had  spent  his  time  in  a  crazy  effort  to  honour  the 
happy  pair.  He  knew  she  was  to  marry  Reuben,  but 
had  not  seemed  to  take  much  interest.  Doubtless  the 
general  atmosphere  of  festivity  and  adornment  had 
urged  him  to  this. 

How  dreadful !  Already  she  saw  an  insect  crawling 
over  the  bed — probably  there  were  lots  of  others  about 
the  room  ;  and  these  flowers,  all  parched,  dead,  and 
evil-smelling,  gave  a  sinister  touch  to  her  wedding  day. 
A  lump  rose  in  her  throat,  the  back  of  her  eyes  was 
seared  by  something  hot  and  sudden.  .  .  .  Oh,  Harry 
.  .  .  Harry  .  .  . 

Then  misery  turned  to  rage.  It  was  Reuben  who  had 
brought  her  to  this,  who  had  stolen  her  from  Harry, 
forced  her  into  marrying  him,  and  exposed  her  to  this 
anguish.  She  hated  Reuben.  She  hated  him.  With  all 
the  fierceness  of  her  conquered  soul  and  yielded  body 
she  hated  him.  She  would  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  him,  she  would  be  revenged  on  him,  punish  him  .  .  . 
a  little  hoarse  scream  of  rage  burst  from  her  lips,  and 
she  turned  suddenly  and  ran  out  of  that  dreadful 
room. 

She  ran  down  the  passage,  panting  and  sobbing  with 
rage.  Then  at  the  stair  head  something  even  blacker 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  FIGHT      77 

than  the  darkness  met  her.  It  seized  her,  it  swung  her 
up,  she  was  powerless  as  a  little  bird  in  its  grasp.  Her 
struggles  were  crushed  in  the  kind  strong  arms  that 
held  her,  and  rage  was  stifled  from  her  lips  with 
kisses. 


BOOK    II 
THE  WOMAN'S   PART 


AN  elegy  of  oats. 

A\  Reuben's  oats  were  a  dismal  failure.  All  the 
warm  thrilling  hopes  which  he  had  put  into 
the  ground  with  the  seed  and  the  rape  cake,  all  the 
watching  and  expectation  which  had  imparted  as  many 
delights  as  Naomi  to  the  first  weeks  of  his  married  life  — 
all  had  ended  in  a  few  rows  of  scraggy,  scabrous  mur- 
rainous  little  shoots,  most  of  which  wilted  as  if  with 
shame  directly  they  appeared  above  the  ground,  while 
the  others,  after  showing  him  and  a  derisive  neighbour- 
hood all  that  oats  could  do  in  the  way  of  tulip-roots, 
sedge-leaves,  and  dropsical  husk,  shed  their  seeds  in 
the  first  summer  gale,  and  started  July  as  stubble. 

There  was  no  denying  it.  Boarzell  had  beaten 
Reuben  in  this  their  first  battle.  That  coarse,  shaggy, 
unfruitful  land  had  refused  to  submit  to  husbandry. 
Backfield  had  not  yet  taken  Leviathan  as  his  servant. 
His  defeat  stimulated  local  wit. 

"How's  the  peas  gitting  on,  Maaster  ?  "  Ditch  of 
Totease  would  facetiously  enquire.  "  I  rode  by  that 
new  land  of  yours  yesterday,  and,  says  I,  there's  as  fine 
a  crop  of  creeping  plants  as  ever  I  did  see." 

"  Taun't  peas,  thick  'un,"  Vennal  would  break  in 
uproariously,  "  it's  turnips  —  each  of  'em  got  a  root  like 
my  fist." 

"  And  here  wur  I  all  this  time  guessing  as  it  wur 

78 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  79 

cabbages  acause  of  the  leaves/'  old  Ginner  would  finish, 
not  to  be  outdone  in  badinage.  • 

Reuben  always  accepted  such  chaff  good-humouredly, 
for  he  knew  it  was  prompted  by  envy,  and  he  would  have 
scorned  to  let  these  men  know  how  much  he  had  been 
hurt.  Also,  though  defeated,  he  was  quite  undaunted. 
He  was  not  going  to  be  beaten.  That  untractable  slope 
of  marl  should  be  sown  as  permanent  pasture  in  the 
spring,  and  he  would  grow  oats  on  the  new  piece  he 
would  buy  at  the  end  of  the  year  with  his  wife's  fortune. 

Naomi's  money  had  been  the  greatest  possible  help. 
He  had  roofed  the  Dutch  barn,  and  retarred  the  oasts, 
he  had  bought  a  fine  new  plough  horse  and  a  waggon, 
and  he  was  going  to  buy  another  piece  of  Boarzell — 
ten  or  twelve  acres  this  time,  of  the  more  fruitful  clay- 
soil  by  the  Glotten  brook.  Naomi  was  pleased  to  see 
all  the  new  things.  The  barn  looked  so  spick-and-span 
with  its  scarlet  tiles,  and  the  oasts  shone  like  polished 
ebony ;  she  loved  to  stroke  the  horse's  brown,  snuffling 
nose,  and  "  Oh,  what  a  lovely  blue  !  "  she  said  when  she 
saw  the  waggon. 

She  could  not  take  much  interest  in  Reuben's 
ambitions,  indeed  she  only  partly  understood  them. 
What  did  he  want  Boarzell  for  ? — it  was  so  rough  and 
dreary,  she  was  sure  nothing  would  grow  there.  She 
loved  the  farm,  with  the  dear  faces  of  the  cows,  and  the 
horses,  and  the  poultry,  and  even  the  pigs,  but  talk  of 
crops  and  acres  only  bored  her.  Sometimes  Reuben's 
enthusiasm  would  spill  over,  and  sitting  by  the  fire 
with  her  in  the  evening,  he  would  enlarge  on  all  he  was 
going  to  do  with  Boarzell — this  year,  next  year,  ten 
years  hence.  Then  she  would  nestle  close  to  him,  and 
murmur — "  Yes,  dear  "  .  .  .  "  yes,  dear  "  .  .  .  "  that 
will  be  glorious  " — while  all  the  time  she  was  thinking  of 
his  long  lashes,  his  strong  brown  neck,  the  dear  weight 
of  his  arm  on  her  shoulder,  and  the  kiss  that  would  be 
hers  when  he  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 


SO  SUSSEX    GORSE 

From  this  it  may  be  gathered  that  the  sorrow  and 
hate  of  Naomi's  wedding  night  had  been  but  the 
reaction  of  a  moment.  Indeed  she  woke  the  next 
morning  to  find  herself  a  very  happy  wife.  She  fell  back 
into  her  old  attitude  towards  Reuben — affection,  trust, 
and  compliance,  with  which  was  mixed  this  time  a  little 
innocent  passion.  She  loved  being  with  him,  was 
scrupulously  anxious  to  please  him,  and  would  have 
worked  her  hands  to  pieces  for  his  sake. 

But  Reuben  did  not  want  her  to  work.  She  was 
rather  surprised  at  this  at  first,  for  she  had  expected 
that  she  would  go  on  helping  Mrs.  Backfield  as  she  had 
done  before  her  marriage.  Reuben,  however,  was  quite 
firm — his  wife  was  not  to  redden  her  skin  by  stooping 
over  fires,  or  coarsen  her  hands  by  dabbling  them  in 
soapsuds.  An  occasional  visit  to  the  dairy  or  some  half- 
playful  help  on  bread-baking  days  was  all  he  would 
allow. 

"  But  won't  it  be  too  hard  for  mother  ?  "  Naomi  had 
objected. 

"  Mother  ? — she's  used  to  it,  and  she's  tougher  than 
you,  liddle  creature." 

"  But  I  could  help  just  a  bit." 

"  No,  no — I  woan't  have  you  go  wearing  yourself  out. 
Doan't  let's  hear  no  more  about  it." 

Naomi  had  submitted,  as  she  always  submitted,  and 
after  a  while  obedience  was  made  easy.  In  August  she 
realised  that  she  was  going  to  have  a  child  and  any 
conscientious  desires  which  might  have  twinged  her  at 
the  sight  of  Mrs.  Backfield's  seaming  face  and  bending 
shoulders,  were  lost  in  the  preoccupations  of  her  own 
condition. 

At  first  she  had  not  been  pleased.  She  was  only 
nineteen,  not  particularly  robust,  and  resented  the  loss 
of  her  health  and  freedom  ;  but  after  a  while  sweet 
thoughts  and  expectations  began  to  warm  in  her.  She 
loved  little  babies,  and  it  would  be  delicious  to  have 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  81 

one  of  her  own.  She  hoped  it  would  be  a  girl,  and 
thought  of  beautiful  names  for  it — Victoria,  Emilia, 
Marianna,  and  others  that  she  had  seen  in  the  Keep- 
sake. But  her  delight  was  nothing  to  Reuben's.  She 
had  been  surprised,  overwhelmed  by  his  joy  when  she 
told  him  her  news.  He,  usually  so  reserved,  had  become 
transported,  emotional,  almost  lyrical — so  masterful, 
had  humbled  himself  before  her  and  had  knelt  at  her 
feet  with  his  face  hidden  in  her  gown. 

She  could  never  guess  what  that  child  meant  to 
Reuben.  It  meant  a  fellow  labourer  on  his  farm,  a 
fellow  fighter  on  Boarzell,  and  after  he  was  dead  a  Man 
to  carry  on  his  work  and  his  battle.  At  last  he  would 
have  someone  to  share  his  ambition — that  child  should 
be  trained  up  in  the  atmosphere  of  enterprise  ;  as  other 
fathers  taught  their  children  to  love  and  serve  God,  so 
Reuben  would  teach  this  son  to  love  and  serve  Odiam. 
He  would  no  longer  strive  alone,  he  would  have  a 
comrade,  a  soldier  with  him.  And  after  this  boy  there 
would  be  other  boys,  all  growing  up  in  the  love  of  Odiam 
to  live  for  it. 

He  treated  his  wife  like  a  queen,  he  would  not  allow 
her  the  smallest  exertion.  He  waited  on  her  hand  and 
foot  and  expected  his  mother  to  do  the  same.  Every 
evening,  or,  later  in  the  year,  in  the  afternoon,  he  would 
come  home  early  from  his  work,  and  take  her  out  for  a 
walk  on  his  arm.  He  would  not  allow  her  to  go  alone, 
for  fear  that  she  might  overtire  herself  or  that  anything 
might  frighten  her.  He  insisted  on  her  having  the 
daintiest  food,  and  never  eating  less  than  a  certain 
quantity  every  day  ;  he  decided  that  the  Odiam  chairs 
were  too  hard,  and  bought  her  cushions  at  Rye.  In 
fact  he  pampered  her  as  much  as  he  denied  everybody 
else  and  himself. 

Naomi  soon  came  to  enjoy  her  coddling,  even  though 
occasionally  his  solicitude  was  inclined  to  be  tiresome. 
As  time  wore  on  he  would  not  let  her  walk  up  and  down 


82  SUSSEX    GORSE 

stairs,  but  carried  her  up  to  bed  himself,  and  down 
again  in  the  morning.  She  grew  fat,  white,  and  lan- 
guorous. She  would  lie  for  hours  with  her  hands 
folded  on  her  lap,  now  and  then  picking  up  a  bit  of 
sewing  for  a  few  minutes,  then  dropping  it  again.  She 
was  proud  of  her  position  in  comparison  with  other 
farmers'  wives  in  the  same  circumstances.  Their  men 
kept  them  working  up  to  the  last  week. 

During  this  time  she  saw  very  little  of  Harry  and 
scarcely  ever  thought  of  him.  She  no  longer  had  any 
doubts  as  to  his  being  quite  mad. 

§2. 

In  the  autumn  Reuben  bought  ten  more  acres  of 
Boarzell — a  better  piece  of  land  than  the  first,  more 
sheltered,  with  more  clay  in  the  soil.  Hops  would  do 
well  on  the  lower  part  of  it  down  by  the  brook. 

He  also  bought  three  Jersey  cows ;  they  would 
improve  the  small  dairy  business  he  had  established, 
and  their  milk  would  be  good  for  Naomi.  His  watchful- 
ness of  his  wife  had  now  almost  become  tyranny.  He 
scolded  her  if  she  stooped  to  pick  up  her  scissors,  and 
would  not  let  her  walk  even  in  the  garden  without  him. 

Naomi  submitted  languidly.  Her  days  passed  in  a 
comfortable  heaviness,  and  though  she  occasionally  felt 
bored,  on  the  whole  she  enjoyed  being  fussed  over  and 
waited  on.  During  those  months  her  relations  with 
Reuben's  mother  became  subtly  changed.  Before  her 
marriage  there  had  been  a  certain  friendship  and 
equality  between  them,  but  now  the  elder  woman  took 
more  the  place  of  a  servant.  It  was  not  because  she 
waited  on  Naomi,  fetched  and  carried — Reuben  did  that, 
and  was  her  master  still.  It  was  rather  something  in  her 
whole  attitude.  She  had  ceased  to  confide  in  Naomi, 
ceased  perhaps  to  care  for  her  very  much,  and  this  gave  a 
certain  menial  touch  to  her  services,  It  would  be  hard 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  83 

to  say  what  had  separated  the  two  women — perhaps  it 
was  because  one  toiled  all  day  while  the  other  lay  idle, 
perhaps  it  was  a  twinge  of  maternal  jealousy  on  Mrs. 
Backfield's  part,  for  Reuben  was  beginning  to  notice  her 
less  and  less.  After  a  time  Naomi  realised  this  estrange- 
ment, and  though  at  first  she  did  not  care,  later  on  it 
came  to  distress  her.  Somehow  she  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  being  without  a  woman  associate — in  spite  of 
her  love  for  Reuben,  now  more  passive  and  more 
languid,  like  every  other  emotion,  she  craved  instinc- 
tively for  someone  of  her  own  sex  in  whom  she  could 
confide  and  on  whom  she  could  rely. 

The  year  dipped  into  winter,  then  rose  again  into 
spring.  Lambs  began  to  bleat  in  the  pens,  and  with  the 
last  of  them  in  March  came  Naomi's  baby. 

Reuben  was  nearly  mad  with  anxiety.  His  mother's 
calm,  the  doctor's  leisureliness,  the  midwife's  bustling 
common  sense,  struck  him  as  callous  and  unnatural. 
Even  Naomi  greeted  him  with  a  wan,  peaceful  smile, 
when  frantic  with  waiting,  he  stole  up  to  her  room.  Did 
they  all  realise,  he  wondered,  what  was  at  stake  ? 
Suppose  anything  should  happen.  ...  In  vain  the 
doctor  assured  him  that  everything  was  normal  and 
going  on  just  as  it  should. 

He  went  out  and  did  a  little  work,  but  after  an  hour 
or  so  flung  down  the  chicken-coop  he  was  making,  and 
rushed  into  the  house.  His  usual  question  received  its 
usual  answer.  He  thought  the  doctor  a  hemmed  fraud 
and  the  doctor  thought  him  a  damned  fool. 

The  sun  set,  and  Reuben  had  given  up  even  the 
attempt  to  work.  He  wandered  on  Boarzell  till  the 
outline  of  its  crest  was  lost  in  the  black  pit  of  night. 
Then  a  new  anxiety  began  to  fret  him.  Possibly  all  was 
going  well  since  everybody  said  so,  but — suppose  the 
child  was  a  girl !  Up  till  now  he  had  scarcely  thought 
of  such  a  thing,  he  had  made  sure  that  his  child  would 
be  a  boy,  someone  to  help  him  in  his  struggle  and  to 


84  SUSSEX    GORSE 

reap  the  fruits  of  it  after  he  was  gone.  But,  suppose, 
after  all,  it  should  be  a  girl !  Quite  probably  it  would  be 
— why  should  he  think  it  would  not  ?  The  sweat  stood 
on  Reuben's  forehead. 

Then  suddenly  he  saw  something  white  moving  in  the 
darkness.  It  was  coming  towards  him.  It  was  his 
mother's  apron. 

He  ran  to  meet  her,  for  his  legs  tottered  so  that  he 
could  not  walk.  He  could  not  frame  his  question,  but 
she  answered  it : 

"  All's  well  .  .  .  it's  a  boy." 

§3- 

Naomi  spent  a  peaceful  and  happy  convalescence. 
Everything  combined  for  her  blessedness.  The  soft 
April  days  scattered  their  scent  and  sunshine  on  her  bed, 
where  she  lay  with  her  baby,  full  of  drowsy  hopes.  Even 
Boarzell's  firs  had  a  mellowness  about  them,  as  if  her 
motherhood  had  sweetened  not  only  herself  and  those 
about  her,  but  the  grim  face  of  nature  militant. 

Her  memories  of  those  days  were  full  of  the  smell  of 
daffodils  blown  in  at  her  window  from  the  garden  and  of 
primroses  set  by  Reuben  in  a  bowl  beside  the  bed — of 
Reuben  stooping  over  her,  smoothing  back  her  hair, 
and  stroking  her  face  with  hands  that  quivered  strangely, 
or  holding  the  baby  as  if  it  were  made  of  fire  and  glass. 

As  soon  as  she  was  well  enough  the  christening  took 
place  in  Peasmarsh  church.  The  heir  of  all  the  Back- 
fields  was  important  enough  to  receive  three  Christian 
names — Reuben  after  his  father,  Thomas  after  old 
Gasson,  and  Albert  after  the  Prince  Consort.  "  I  shall 
call  him  Albert,"  said  Naomi. 

That  spring  and  summer  Reuben  worked  with  a  light 
heart.  His  fatherhood  made  him  proud  and  expansive. 
He  would  boast  about  the  baby  to  Beatup,  tell  him  how 
many  ounces  it  had  gained  in  the  week,  enlarge  on  its 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  8« 

strength  and  energy,  with  intimate  details  concerning 
its  digestion — all  of  which  were  received  open-mouthed 
by  Beatup  who  knew  pretty  well  as  much  about  babies 
as  he  did  about  oecumenical  councils. 

"  He'll  soon  be  able  to  do  a  bit  of  work  wud  us, 
Beatup/'  said  Reuben  apocalyptically. — "  I'll  have  him 
on  when  he's  ten  or  thereabouts,  and  at  fifteen  he'll  be 
doing  full  man's  work.  I  shouldn't  wonder  as  how  I'd 
never  want  another  hand  but  you — we  could  manage 
the  plaace,  I  reckon,  till  the  lad's  old  enough,  and  then 
there'll  be  others.  ..." 

"  Yus,  Maaster,"  said  Beatup. 

The  second  piece  of  land  had  thriven  better  than  the 
first.  The  hops  were  sturdy  and  promising  beside  the 
brook,  and  on  the  higher  grounds  the  new  pastures 
fattened.  Reuben  had  decided  to  dig  up  a  couple  of  his 
old  grass  meadows  and  prepare  them  for  grain-sowing 
in  the  autumn.  The  soil  was  good,  and  it  was  only  his 
father's  want  of  enterprise  which  had  kept  so  much  of 
Odiam  as  mere  grazing  land.  As  for  the  cows,  there 
was  ample  provision  for  them  on  the  new  pastures, 
which  Boarzell  would  continue  to  yield,  even  if  it  refused 
oats — "  But  I'll  have  oats  there  some  day,  I  reckon," 
said  Reuben,  "  oats,  and  barley,  and  maybe  wheat." 

He  pictured  Odiam  chiefly  as  a  great  grain  farm — 
though  there  might  be  more  money  in  fruit  or  milk, 
these  would  be  mere  temporary  profit-making  concerns, 
means  to  an  end  ;  for  glory  and  real  permanent  fortune 
lay  in  wheat.  He  was  terribly  anxious  lest  the  Corn 
Laws  should  be  repealed,  a  catastrophe  which  had 
threatened  farming  for  several  years.  For  the  first  time 
he  began  to  take  an  interest  in  politics  and  follow  the 
trend  of  public  opinion.  He  could  not  read,  so  was 
forced  to  depend  on  Naomi  to  read  him  the  newspaper 
he  occasionally  had  three  days  old  from  Rye. 

The  Backfields  had  always  been  Tory,  just  as  they 
had  always  been  Church,  because  Liberalism  and  Dissent 


86  SUSSEX    GORSE 

were  "  low,"  and  unworthy  of  yeomen  farmers.  But 
they  had  never  felt  very  keenly  about  politics,  which, 
except  at  election  times,  had  not  come  much  into  their 
lives.  Even  at  the  elections  the  interest  had  been  slight, 
because  up  till  ten  years  ago  Rye  had  been  a  pocket 
borough,  and  its  Radical  member  went  up  to  Parliament 
without  any  of  the  pamphlet-writing,  bill-sticking,  mud- 
throwing,  or  free-fighting,  which  stirred  the  blood  in 
other  towns. 

Now,  however,  having  vital  interests  at  stake,  Reuben 
became  an  absorbed  and  truculent  Conservative.  He 
never  called  in  at  the  Cocks  without  haranguing  the 
company  on  the  benefits  of  the  wheat-tax,  and  cursing 
Cobden  and  Bright.  On  the  occasion  of  the  '42  election, 
he  abandoned  important  obstetric  duties  in  the  cow- 
stable  to  Beatup,  and  rode  into  Rye  to  record  his 
vote  for  the  unsuccessful  Tory  candidate.  The  neigh- 
bourhood was  of  Whig  tendencies,  spoon-fed  from  the 
Manor,  but  the  Backfields  had  never  submitted  to 
Bardon  politics  ;  and  now  even  the  fact  that  the  Squire 
held  Reuben's  land  of  promise,  failed  to  influence  him. 

The  Bardons  were  strongly  anti-Corn  Law,  but  their 
opposition  had  that  same  touch  of  inefficiency  which 
characterised  all  their  dealings  and  earned  Reuben's 
contempt.  In  spite  of  their  Liberalism  they  had  been 
driven  for  financial  considerations  to  inclose  Boarzell — 
then  even  the  inclosure  had  failed,  and  they  were  now, 
also  against  their  will,  surrendering  the  land  piecemeal 
to  a  man  who  was  in  every  way  their  opposite  and 
antagonist.  They  agitated  feebly  for  Repeal,  but  were 
unable  to  make  themselves  heard.  They  visited  the 
poor,  and  doled  out  relief  in  ineffectual  scraps.  Reuben 
despised  them.  They  were  an  old  line — effete — played 
out.  He  and  his  race  would  show  them  what  was  a  Man. 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  87 

§4- 

That  summer  Naomi  realised  that  she  was  going  to 
have  another  child.  She  was  sorry,  for  her  maternal 
instincts  were  satisfied  for  the  present,  and  she  had 
begun  to  value  her  new-returned  health.  It  would  be 
hard  to  have  to  go  back  to  bondage  again. 

However,  there  was  no  help  for  it.  Reuben  was  over- 
joyed, and  once  more  she  slipped  under  his  tyranny. 
This  time  she  found  it  irksome,  his  watchfulness  was  a 
nuisance,  his  anxiety  was  absurd.  However,  she  did 
not  complain.  She  was  too  timid,  and  too  fond  of  him. 
"  I  hope  it'll  be  a  girl  this  time,"  she  said  one  after- 
noon, when  according  to  custom  she  was  walking  along 
Totease  Lane,  his  arm  under  hers. 

"  A  girl Oh,  no  !    I  want  another  boy." 

"  But  we've  got  a  boy,  Reuben.  It  would  be  nice  to 
have  a  girl  now." 

"  Why,  liddle  creature  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  justabout  love  baby  girls.  They're  so  sweet 
— and  all  their  dresses  and  that  .  .  .  Besides  we  don't 
want  two  boys." 

To  her  surprise  Reuben  stopped  in  the  road,  and  burst 
out  laughing. 

"  Two  boys  ! — not  want  two  boys  ! — Why,  we  want 
ten  boys  !  if  I  cud  have  twenty,  I  shudn't  grumble." 

"  What  nonsense  you're  talking,  Backfield,"  said 
Naomi  primly. 

"  I  aun't  talking  nonsense,  I'm  talking  sound  sense. 
How  am  I  to  run  the  farm  wudout  boys  ?  I  want  boys 
to  help  me  work  all  that  land.  I'm  going  to  have  the 
whole  of  Boarzell,  as  I've  told  you  a  dunnamany  times, 
and  I'll  want  men  wud  me  on  it.  So  doan't  you  go  talk- 
ing o'  girls.  Wot  use  are  girls  ? — none  !  They  just 
spannel  about,  and  then  go  off  and  get  married." 

"  But  a  girl  'ud  be  useful  in  the  house — she  could  help 
mother  when  she's  older." 


88  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  No,  thankee.  However  hard  she  works  she  aun't 
worth  half  a  boy.  You  give  me  ten  boys,  missus,  and 
then  I  doan't  mind  you  having  a  girl  or  so  to  please 
yourself/' 

Naomi  was  disgusted.  Reuben  had  once  or  twice 
offended  her  by  his  coarseness,  but  she  could  never 
get  used  to  it. 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  speak  to  me  so  !  "  she  gulped. 

"  Now,  you  silly  liddle  thing,  wot  are  you  crying 
for  ?  Mayn't  I  have  a  joke  ?  " 

"  But  you're  so  vulgar  !  " 

Reuben  looked  a  little  blank.  None  of  the  details  of 
his  great  desire  had  hitherto  struck  him  as  vulgar. 

"  Vulgar,  am  I  ?  "  he  said  ruefully.  "  No  matter, 
child,  we  woan't  go  quarrelling.  Come,  dry  your  dear 
eyes,  and  maybe  to-morrow  I'll  drive  you  over  to  Rye 
to  see  the  market." 

Naomi  obediently  dried  her  eyes,  but  it  was  rather 
hard  to  keep  them  from  getting  wet  again.  For  in  her 
heart  she  knew  that  it  was  not  the  vulgarity  of  Reuben's 
joke  which  had  upset  her,  but  a  certain  horrible  con- 
vincingness about  it.  It  was  not  so  merely  a  joke  as  he 
would  have  her  think. 

During  the  days  that  followed  her  attitude  towards 
him  changed  subtly,  almost  subconsciously.  A  strange 
fear  of  him  came  over  her.  Would  he  insist  on  her 
bearing  child  after  child  to  help  him  realise  his  great 
ambition  ?  It  was  ridiculous,  she  knew,  and  probably 
due  to  her  state  of  health,  but  sometimes  she  found 
herself  thinking  of  him  not  so  much  as  a  man  as  a  thing  ; 
she  saw  in  him  no  longer  the  loving  if  tyrannical  husband, 
but  a  law,  a  force,  to  which  she  and  everyone  else  must 
bow.  She  even  noticed  a  kind  of  likeness  between  him 
and  Boarzell — swart,  strong,  cruel,  full  of  an  irrepres- 
sible lif 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  89 


§5- 

The  following  spring  Naomi  gave  birth  to  twin  boys. 
With  these  twins  really  started  the  epic  of  her  maternity. 
She  was  not  to  be  one  of  those  women  for  whom  mother- 
hood is  a  little  song  of  baby  shoes  and  blue  sashes,  and 
games  and  kisses  and  rockings  to  sleep.  Hers  was 
altogether  a  sterner  business,  her  part  in  a  battle — it 
was  motherhood  for  a  definite  purpose,  man  and  woman 
taking  a  leaf  out  of  nature's  book,  playing  her  game  to 
their  own  advantage,  using  her  methods  only  to  crush 
her  at  last.  In  a  word  it  was  epic — and  the  one  draw- 
back was  that  Naomi  had  never  been  meant  for  an  epic 
part  in  life.  She  of  all  women  had  been  meant  for  baby 
shoes  and  blue  sashes,  and  here  she  was  with  her  shoulder 
against  Reuben's,  helping  him  in  the  battle  which  even 
he  found  hard.  .  .  . 

However,  as  yet  there  were  few  misgivings.  That 
faintness  of  spirit  which  had  come  over  her  during  the 
last  few  months  of  her  pregnancy,  faded  like  a  ghost  in 
the  first  joyous  days  of  her  deliverance.  Reuben's 
pride,  delight,  and  humble  gratitude  were  enough  to 
make  any  woman  happy,  even  without  those  two  dear 
fat  little  babies  which  the  doctor  said  were  the  finest 
twins  he  had  ever  seen.  Naomi  was  one  of  those  women 
who,  even  without  very  strong  maternal  instincts, 
cannot  resist  a  baby.  The  soft  limbs,  the  big  downy 
heads,  the  groping  wet  mouths  of  her  boys  were  a  sheer 
physical  delight  to  her.  She  even  forgot  to  regret  that 
one  of  them  was  not  a  girl. 

She  made  a  quick  recovery,  and  Robert  and  Peter 
were  christened  at  Easter- time.  Naomi  looked  every 
inch  the  proud  mother.  Her  slight  figure  had  acquired 
more  matronly  lines,  and  she  even  affected  a  more 
elderly  style  of  dress.  For  some  time  afterwards,  proud 
and  beloved,  she  really  felt  that  motherhood  was  her 
vocation,  and  when  in  the  course  of  the  summer  she 


90  SUSSEX    GORSE 

realised  that  her  experiences  were  to  be  repeated,  she 
was  not  so  sorry  as  she  had  been  before.  She  hoped 
desperately  it  would  be  a  girl — but  this  time  said  nothing 
to  Reuben. 

Once  more  her  attitude  towards  him  had  changed. 
She  no  longer  felt  the  timid  passion  of  the  first  months 
after  her  marriage,  but  she  also  no  longer  felt  that 
sinister  dread  and  foreboding  which  had  succeeded  it. 
She  looked  upon  him  less  as  her  husband,  inspiring 
alternately  love  and  terror,  than  as  the  father  of  her 
children.  She  saw  him,  so  to  speak,  through  them. 
She  loved  him  because  they  were  his  as  well  as  hers. 
She  spoke  less  of  "  I  "  and  "  he,"  and  more  of  "us," 
"  we,"  and  "  ours." 

All  the  same  she  was  bitterly  disappointed  when  the 
following  year  another  boy  was  born.  She  sobbed  into 
her  pillow,  and  even  Reuben's  delight  and  little  Richard's 
soft  kicks  against  her  breast,  could  not  comfort  her.  In 
fact  she  felt  secretly  angry  with  Reuben  for  his  joy. 
He  did  not  think  of  her  and  what  she  wanted.  He 
thought  only  of  his  dirty  old  farm,  and  that  dreary, 
horrible  Boarzell. 

As  time  wore  on,  and  her  hopes  were  once  more 
roused,  she  became  quite  obsessed  by  the  idea  of  having 
a  girl.  She  thought  of  nothing  but  the  little  frocks,  the 
ribbons  with  which  she  would  tie  the  pretty  hair.  She 
pictured  the  times  she  and  her  daughter  would  have 
together,  the  confidences  they  would  exchange — for 
old  Mrs.  Backfield  grew  more  and  more  silent  and  un- 
receptive,  and  her  neighbours  were  not  of  her  mould. 
They  would  tell  each  other  everything  .  .  .  she  had 
dreams  of  an  impossible  little  pink-and-white  girl  like 
a  doll,  with  golden  curls  and  blue  eyes  and  a  white 
muslin  frock.  In  her  dreams  she  would  stretch  out  her 
arms  to  this  ached-for  child,  and  would  wake  sobbing, 
with  the  tears  running  down  her  face. 

Then,  at  last,  after  experiences  which  had  had  bore- 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  91 

dom  added  to  their  pain  by  repetition,  she  murmured — 
"  What  is  it,  mother?  "—and  a  real,  breathing,  living, 
crying,  little  girl  was  put  into  her  arms. 

§6. 

The  positions  of  husband  and  wife  were  now  reversed. 
It  was  Reuben  who  sulked  and  gloomed,  looking  at  the 
baby  askance,  while  Naomi  moved  in  a  daydream  of 
peace  and  rapture  and  desire  satisfied.  She  was  too 
happy  to  care  much  about  her  husband's  disappoint- 
ment. She  would  never  have  believed  it  if  anyone  had 
told  her  in  the  first  weeks  of  her  marriage  that  she 
could  have  a  joy  and  not  mind  if  he  did  not  share  it,  a 
child  and  not  fret  if  he  did  not  love  it.  But  now  her 
child  sufficed  her,  or  rather  she  had  learned  the  lesson 
of  wives,  to  suffice  herself,  and  could  love  and  rejoice 
without  a  comrade. 

She  had  forgotten  the  Arabellas  and  Mariannas  of 
the  Keepsake,  and  the  baby  was  called  Fanny  after 
Naomi's  own  mother,  whom  she  dimly  remembered. 
Fanny  became  the  centre  of  Naomi's  life ;  she  was  not 
as  healthy  as  the  other  children,  and  her  little  pains 
and  illnesses  were  all  so  many  cords  drawing  her  closer 
to  her  mother's  heart.  Though  she  required  twice  as 
much  attention  as  the  boys,  Naomi  never  fretted  or 
grew  weary,  as  she  had  sometimes  done  in  IJie  service 
of  the  other  little  ones — on  the  contrary,  she  bloomed 
into  a  new  beauty,  and  recovered  the  youthfulness  she 
had  begun  to  lose. 

Strange  to  say,  Harry,  who  had  paid  little  attention 
to  the  earlier  babies,  seemed  drawn  to  this  one.  He 
would  hang  round  Naomi  when  she  had  her  in  her  lap, 
and  sometimes  gingerly  put  out  a  hand  and  stroke  the 
child's  limbs.  Naomi  could  not  bear  that  he  should 
touch  her ;  but  he  amused  Fanny,  so  she  tolerated 
him.  He  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  many  half-witted 


92  SUSSEX    GORSE 

people  and  occasionally  made  strange  faces,  which 
though  repulsive  to  everyone  else,  filled  Fanny  with 
hilarious  delight.  Indeed  they  were  the  first  thing  she 
"  noticed." 

"  Oh,  the  pretty  baby  !  save  the  pretty  baby  !  " — 
Harry  would  mutter  and  shriek,  and  he  would  wander 
about  the  house  crying — "  Save  the  pretty  baby  !  " 
till  Naomi  declared  that  he  gave  her  the  shivers. 

"  Keep  him  out  of  the  way,  can't  you,  Backfield  ?  " 
she  said  to  her  husband. 

In  Reuben's  eyes  Naomi  was  just  as  irritating  and 
ridiculous  as  Harry.  She  made  foolish  clothes  for 
Fanny,  quite  unfit  for  a  child  in  her  position — muslins 
and  ribbon  bows,  little  knitted  shoes,  which  she  was 
forever  pulling  off  to  kiss  the  baby's  feet.  She  would 
seat  her  on  some  high  big  chair  in  which  she  lolled  with 
grotesque  importance,  and  would  kneel  before  her  and 
call  her  "  Miss  Fanny." 

"  There,  Miss  Fanny — see  what  a  grand  baby  you 
are.  Soon  all  the  boys  will  be  courting  you — see  if  they 
don't.  You  shall  always  wear  silk  and  muslins  and  sit 
on  cushions,  and  you  will  always  love  your  mother, 
won't  you,  dear  little  miss  ?  " 

Reuben  was  revolted — also  a  little  hurt.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  Naomi  was  neglecting  the  boys  he  was  so 
proud  of.  Albert  was  nearly  four  years  old,  a  fine 
sturdy  child,  worth  a  dozen  puling  Fannys,  and  Robert 
and  Pete  were  vigorous  crawlers  and  adventurers,  who 
ought  to  rejoice  any  mother's  heart.  Richard  was  still 
in  an  uninteresting  stage — but,  hem  it  all !  he  was  a 
boy. 

Nearly  as  bad  as  her  indifference  to  the  children  she 
had  already  borne,  was  her  indifference  to  the  child  she 
was  about  to  bear.  She  was  expecting  her  confinement 
in  the  spring,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  take  the  slightest 
interest  in  it  or  the  slightest  care  of  herself.  Again  and 
again  she  would  start  up  from  the  sofa  where  she  had 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  93 

lain  down  by  his  orders,  because  she  heard  Fanny 
crying  upstairs.  She  risked  injuring  herself  by  con- 
tinually carrying  her  about  or  by  stooping  over  her  as 
she  rolled  on  the  floor. 

Reuben  often  spoke  to  her  severely,  but  with  no 
result.  There  was  a  time  when  he  could  never  chide 
her  without  her  crying,  but  now  she  hardly  seemed  to 
care. 

As  the  autumn  wore  on  Fanny  became  more  and  more 
ailing  and  Naomi  more  and  more  preoccupied.  There 
were  doctor's  visits  to  be  paid  for,  and  on  one  or  two 
occasions  Naomi  had  sent  for  him  unnecessarily.  It 
maddened  Reuben  to  think  that  he  was  not  master  of 
his  own  household,  but  though  he  could  always  enforce 
obedience  in  person,  he  was  compelled  continually  to  be 
out  of  doors,  even  sometimes  away  from  the  farm,  and 
he  could  not  control  what  went  on  in  his  absence. 

Odiam  was  passing  through  anxious  times.  The  ex- 
pected and  dreaded  had  happened — the  Corn  Laws  had 
been  repealed,  and  cursing  farmers  grubbed  up  their 
wheatfields,  hoping  no  more  from  grain.  Reuben  was 
bitterly  disappointed,  the  whole  future  of  Odiam  was 
bound  up  with  grain,  the  most  honourable  and— in  the 
long  run — most  profitable  of  a  farm's  concerns.  In  his 
dreams  he  had  seen  wind-rippled  waves  of  wheat  roll- 
ing up  to  Boarzell's  very  crest,  he  had  seen  the  threshed 
corn  filling  his  barn,  or  rumbling  to  Iden  Mill.  Now  the 
cheap  abundant  foreign  grain  would  fight  his  home-sown 
harvests.  He  would  have  to  depend  for  revenue  on 
milk  and  hops,  and  grow  wheat  only  as  an  expensive 
decoration.  Peel  was  a  traitor  ;  he  had  betrayed  the 
staunch  grain-growing  Tories  who  had  inconvenienced 
themselves  with  muddy  rides  to  vote  for  his  supporters. 
For  a  year  or  so  Reuben  hated  the  Conservatives,  and 
would  not  vote  at  all  at  the  next  election. 

He  had  trouble,  too,  with  his  new  grass.  One  of  his 
Jersey  cows  suddenly  died,  and  it  turned  out  that  it 


94  SUSSEX    GORSE 

had  eaten  some  poisonous  plant  which  had  insinuated 
itself  into  the  pasture.  It  was  as  if  Boarzell  fought 
treacherously — with  stabbings  in  the  dark  as  well  as 
blastings  in  the  open.  The  night  the  Jersey  died,  Reuben 
sat  with  his  head  buried  in  his  arms  on  the  kitchen 
table,  while  Naomi  carried  her  Miss  Fanny  about  the 
room,  and  told  her  about  the  beautiful  silk  gowns  she 
would  wear  when  she  grew  up. 

§7- 

That  autumn  he  had  sown  catch-crops  of  Italian  rye 
grass,  which  gave  the  stock  a  good  early  winter  feed. 
He  had  grown  sharper  in  his  dealings  with  the  land,  he 
knew  how  to  take  it  at  a  disadvantage,  snatch  out  a 
few  roots.  Every  inch  of  the  farm  was  now  at  work, 
for  every  blade  of  grass  now  counted.  He  had  even 
dug  up  the  garden,  casting  aside  rose-bushes,  sweet- 
peas,  and  dahlias  for  dull  rows  of  drum-head  cabbages, 
potatoes,  kale,  and  beans.  And  manure  .  .  .  there  was 
manure  everywhere,  lying  under  the  very  parlour 
windows,  sending  up  its  effluvium  on  the  foggy  winter 
air  till  it  crept  into  even  the  close-shut  bedroom, 
making  Naomi  conscious  of  Reuben  in  her  dreams. 

She  was  inclined  to  be  sulky  in  those  days.  She  dis- 
liked the  smell  of  manure,  she  disliked  being  made  to 
dream  of  Reuben,  towards  whom  she  now  felt  a  vague 
hostility.  What  business  had  he  to  go  and  saddle  her 
with  another  child  ?  Surely  she  had  enough — four 
boys  and  a  girl.  What  business  had  he  to  make  her 
languid  and  delicate  just  when  she  needed  all  her 
health  for  the  ailing  Fanny  ?  He  was  so  unsympathetic 
about  Fanny,  too,  one  really  might  think  he  did  not 
care  what  the  poor  little  creature  suffered. 

Naomi  began  to  complain  about  him  to  the  neigh- 
bours. She  joined  in  those  wifely  discussions,  wherein 
every  woman  plaintively  abused  her  own  man,  and  rose 
at  once  in  fury  if  another  woman  ventured  to  do  so. 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  95 

"  Backfield  he  scarcely  takes  any  notice  of  me  now — 
always  thinking  about  his  farm.  Talks  of  nothing  but 
hops  and  oats.  Would  you  believe  it,  Mrs.  Ditch,  but 
he  hardly  ever  looks  at  this  dear  little  Fanny.  He 
cares  for  his  boys  right  enough,  because  when  they're 
grown  up  they'll  be  able  to  work  for  him,  but  he  just- 
about  neglects  his  girlie — that's  what  he  does,  he 
neglects  her.  The  other  night,  there  she  was  crying 
and  sobbing  her  little  heart  out,  and  he  wouldn't  let 
me  send  for  the  doctor.  Says  he  can't  afford  to  have 
the  doctor  here  for  nothing.  Nothing,  indeed  !  .  .  ." 

So  Naomi  would  maunder  to  her  acquaintance  ;  with 
Reuben  she  confined  herself  to  hints  and  innuendoes. 
Sometimes  she  complained  to  Mrs.  Backfield,  but  her 
husband's  mother  was  unsympathetic. 

"  You  doan't  know  when  you're  in  luck,"  she  said  as 
she  thumped  the  dough — "  nothing  to  do  but  bath  and 
dress  the  children,  and  yet  you  grumble.  If  you  had 
to  work  like  me " 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  do  it.  Make  Backfield  get 
a  girl  to  help  you." 

"  And  pay  eight  shillings  a  month  when  he  wants  the 
money  so  badly  !  No,  if  a  woman  can't  work  fur  her 
son,  I  doan't  see  much  good  in  her.  Some  women  " — 
rather  venomously — "  even  work  fur  their  husbands." 

:<  You  know  well  enough  he  won't  let  me  work  for 
him." 

"  I  never  said  as  you  ought  to  work  fur  him — all  I 
said  wur  as  you  shouldn't  ought  to  grumble." 

A  loud  wail  from  Fanny  in  her  cradle  drove  the  retort 
from  Naomi's  lips.  She  sprang  from  the  arm-chair 
where  she  had  been  resting,  and  ran  heavily  across  the 
room  to  the  baby's  side. 

11  What's  the  matter,  my  darling  ?  Come  to  mother, 
little  Miss  Fanny.  Oh,  I  know  something's  wrong  with 
her,  or  she  wouldn't  cry  so.  She's  got  such  a  sweet 
temper  really." 


96  SUSSEX    GORSE 

She  picked  the  child  out  of  the  cradle,  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room,  rocking  it  in  her  arms. 
Fanny's  wails  grew  louder,  more  long-drawn,  and  more 
plaintive. 

Reuben  came  in,  and  his  brows  contracted  when  he 
saw  what  his  wife  was  doing.  There  was  a  slight  mois- 
ture on  her  forehead,  and  she  strained  the  child  violently 
to  her  breast. 

"  Come,  Naomi,  put  her  down.  It's  bad  for  you  to 
carry  her  about  like  this." 

"  Oh,  Reuben,  I'm  sure  she's  ill.  Can't  we  send 
Beatup  over  for  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  No,  we  can't.  There's  naun  the  matter  wud  her 
really.  She's  always  crying.  " 

Naomi  faced  him  almost  spitefully. 

"  If  one  of  the  boys  had  hurt  his  little  finger  you'd 
have  doctor  in  at  once.  It's  only  because  it's  Fanny. 
You  don't  love  her,  you " 

"  Now  none  o'  that,  missus,"  said  Reuben  roughly — 
"  you  put  the  child  back  in  her  cradle,  and  go  and  lie 
down  yourself.  I  doan't  want  to  have  to  fetch  doctor 
in  to  you." 

Naomi  had  not  acquired  the  art  of  flouting  him 
openly.  She  tearfully  put  Fanny  into  her  cradle,  and 
lay  and  sulked  on  the  sofa  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

That  night  she  dreamed  that  her  new  baby  was  born, 
and  that  Reuben  had  taken  away  Fanny  and  given  her 
to  Beatup.  Beatup  was  carrying  her  down  to  the  pond 
to  drown  her  as  he  drowned  the  kittens,  and  Naomi 
stood  in  the  garden  with  immovable  weights  on  every 
limb  listening  to  the  despairing  shrieks  of  her  little  girl. 
They  were  dreadful  shrieks,  not  like  a  baby's  at  all. 

They  still  sounded  when  Naomi  woke.  She  sat  up 
in  bed,  uncertain  as  to  whether  she  were  dreaming  or 
not.  Then  from  Fanny's  little  bed  beside  the  big  one 
came  something  terrible — a  low  long  wail  like  an  animal's 
dying  into  a  moan.  It  seemed  as  if  her  heart  stopped 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  97 

beating.  She  felt  the  sweat  rush  out  all  over  her  body. 
The  next  minute  she  was  out  of  bed,  groping  for  Fanny 
in  the  darkness. 

She  found  her  and  lifted  her  in  her  arms  ;  once  more 
that  dreadful  wailing  moan  came  from  the  little  body, 
mingling  this  time  with  a  snore  from  Reuben.  Naomi, 
still  grasping  Fanny,  managed  to  light  a  candle.  The 
child's  face  was  deadly  white  and  drawn  in  a  strange 
way,  while  her  lips  were  blue. 

"  Reuben  !  "  shrieked  Naomi. 

He  did  not  wake.  Worn  out  with  hard  work  and  his 
anxiety  about  his  farm,  he  still  slept  heavily,  rolled  in 
the  blanket.  A  sick  insane  rage  seized  Naomi.  She 
sprang  on  the  bed,  tore  the  clothes  off  him,  shook  him, 
beat  him,  pulled  his  hair,  while  all  the  time  she  grasped 
the  now  silent  Fanny  convulsively  between  her  left  arm 
and  her  breast. 

"  My  child's  dying.  Get  up,  you  brute.  Fetch  the 
doctor.  My  child's  dying  !  " 

For  a  moment  Reuben  was  bewildered  with  his  sudden 
waking,  but  he  soon  came  to  himself  at  the  sight  of  his 
wife's  distorted  face  and  the  inanimate  lop-headed 
baby.  He  sprang  up,  pulled  on  his  trousers,  and  in 
two  minutes  had  bundled  the  half-conscious  but  utterly 
willing  Beatup  out  of  his  attic,  and  sent  him  off  on  the 
fastest  horse  to  Rye.  Then  he  came  back  into  the  bed- 
room. Naomi  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  her  hair  falling 
over  her  shoulders,  the  baby  unconscious  on  her  lap. 

"  Give  her  to  me,  child — let  me  look." 

"  No,  no — get  away,"  and  Naomi  once  more  caught 
up  Fanny  to  her  breast. 

"I'll  go  and  fetch  mother." 

Mrs.  Backfield  arrived  in  a  washed-out  bed-gown.  A 
fire  was  lit  and  water  put  on  to  boil.  Fanny's,  however, 
did  not  seem  just  an  ordinary  case  of  "  fits  "  ;  she  lay 
limp  in  her  mother's  arms,  strangely  blue  round  the 
mouth,  her  eyes  half  open. 


98  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Oh,  what  is  it  ? — what  is  it  ?  "  wailed  Naomi — 
"  can't  we  do  anything  ?  Oh,  why  doesn't  the  doctor 
come  ?  " 

Suddenly  the  baby  stiffened  on  her  lap.  The  limbs 
became  rigid,  the  face  black.  Then  something  rasped 
in  its  throat. 

"  Bring  the  water  ! — Bring  the  water  !  "  screamed 
Naomi,  hardly  knowing  what  she  said. 

Mrs.  Backfield  poured  the  water  into  a  basin,  and 
Naomi  lifted  Miss  Fanny  to  put  her  into  the  steaming 
bath. 

"  It's  no  use/'  said  Reuben.  He  knew  the  child  was 
dead. 

But  Naomi  insisted  on  putting  Fanny  into  the  basin. 
She  held  her  up  in  it  for  a  moment.  Then  suddenly  let 
her  drop,  and  fell  forward,  wailing. 

Reuben  and  Mrs.  Backfield  tried  in  vain  to  soothe 
her,  and  put  her  back  to  bed.  She  was  like  a  mad 
woman.  She  who  had  always  been  so  timid  and  gentle, 
peevish  at  the  worst,  now  shouted,  kicked  and  raved. 

"  You've  killed  her  !  it's  your  doing  .  .  .  you're  a 
murderer !  "  she  screamed  at  Reuben. 

He  lifted  her  bodily  and  laid  her  on  the  bed.  But  she 
was  still  half  insane — 

"  I  hate  you !  I  hate  you  !  "  she  cried,  and  threw 
herself  about. 

When  the  doctor  arrived  an  hour  later,  his  services 
were  needed  after  all.  For  Naomi  gave  birth  to  a  little 
boy  at  dawn. 

§8. 

Naomi  had  met  her  tragedy.  In  course  of  time  she 
recovered  from  her  confinement,  but  all  the  joy  of  life 
and  motherhood  had  gone  from  her.  It  was  inexplicable 
to  Reuben  that  she  could  mourn  so  hopelessly  over  the 
death  of  a  little  weak  girl,  who  would  have  been  nothing 
but  a  care  and  an  expense  if  she  had  lived.  It  was 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  99 

inexplicable  that  she  could  take  no  interest  in  young 
Benjamin,  a  sound,  well-made  little  fellow  in  spite  of 
his  premature  birth.  For  the  first  time  she  was  unable  to 
suckle  her  baby,  and  Reuben  was  forced  to  engage  a 
nurse,  not  liking  the  responsibility  of  bringing  him  up 
by  hand. 

But  he  was  very  good  to  Naomi.  He  tried  to  forget 
her  indifference  to  his  beloved  boys,  and  to  soothe  and 
strengthen  her  into  something  like  her  old  self.  She  did 
not  repulse  him.  All  the  violence  and  the  desperation 
in  her  had  burnt  themselves  out  during  that  night  of 
frenzy.  She  lay  in  bed  hour  after  hour  without  moving, 
her  long  hair — which  was  now  beginning  to  come  out  in 
handfuls  when  she  brushed  it — spread  over  the  pillow. 
Her  muscles  were  slack,  she  lay  without  any  suppleness, 
heavy  against  the  mattress.  After  some  weeks  she  was 
able  to  get  up,  and  go  about  her  duties  with  the  children. 
She  never  spoke  of  her  misery,  she  ate,  she  sewed,  she 
even  gossiped  with  the  neighbours,  as  before.  But 
something  was  gone  from  her — her  eye  sometimes  had 
a  vacant,  roving  look,  her  shoulders  stooped,  and  her 
skin  grew  sallow. 

She  was  still  fond  of  her  children,  but  in  a  listless, 
mechanical  way.  Sometimes  when  she  had  them  all 
gathered  round  her,  for  their  bedtime  or  a  bath,  she 
would  find  the  tears  welling  up  in  her  eyes  till  all  the 
little  faces  were  blurred.  Poor  mites  !  what  future  lay 
ahead  of  them  ?  They  were  their  father's  slaves  as  well 
as  she — the  utmost  would  be  ground  out  of  them  as  it 
had  been  ground  out  of  her. 

Once  more  she  had  taken  up  her  unwilling  part  in 
Boarzell's  epic.  She  was  expecting  another  child  for 
the  following  spring.  This  would  be  her  seventh. 

She  was  no  longer  merely  dissatisfied.  In  her  heart 
she  passionately  rebelled.  She  hated  herself,  and  her 
condition,  for  now  she  hated  Reuben.  The  vague 
hostility  she  had  felt  towards  him  during  Fanny's  short 


100  SUSSEX    GORSE 

life  had  given  place  to  a  definite  hatred.  She  looked  upon 
Reuben  as  the  murderer  of  her  child,  and  she  hated  him. 
During  the  first  days  of  her  grief  he  had  been  so  kind  to 
her  that  she  had  grown  dependent  on  him  and  hatred 
was  delayed,  but  now  dependence  and  dazed  gratitude 
had  passed  away,  and  in  their  place  was  a  sick,  heavy 
loathing  for  the  man  whose  neglect  and  indifference  she 
believed  had  killed  her  child.  She  could  not  endure  the 
thought  of  giving  him  another.  Sometimes  she  thought 
she  would  like  to  kill  herself,  but  she  was  too  weak  a 
soul  for  anything  desperate. 

In  those  days  she  could  not  bear  the  sound  of  Harry's 
fiddle,  and  he  was  told  he  must  not  play  it  in  the  house. 


The  Repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws  did  not  have  such  a  bad 
effect  on  Odiam  as  Reuben  had  feared.  The  harvests 
in  '46  and  '47  were  unusually  good,  and  a  general 
revival  of  prosperity  throughout  the  country  atoned  for 
the  low  price  of  grain.  It  was  not  to  be  expected,  how- 
ever, that  he  would  forgive  at  once  the  party  which  had 
betrayed  agricultural  interests.  He  transferred  his 
political  allegiance  to  Disraeli,  whose  feudalistic  attitude 
won  his  entire  respect.  It  was  a  great  trial  to  him  that 
he  could  not  read  the  newspapers,  for  nowadays  he  did 
not  care  to  have  Naomi  read  to  him.  She  used  to  some- 
times, but  her  utter  lack  of  interest  and  understanding 
was  no  longer  atoned  for  by  a  voice  love-modulated  or 
a  soft  hand  stroking  his.  He  resolved  that  none  of  his 
children  should  share  his  disabilities,  and  already  the 
infant  Albert  toddled  daily  to  a  little  house  in  the 
village  where  two  vague-looking  sisters  taught  the 
rising  generation  mysteries  hidden  from  their  parents. 
Reuben  could  spell  out  one  or  two  words,  and  could 
write  "  Reuben  Backfield  "  in  big  printing  letters  at  the 
bottom  of  any  document  he  had  to  sign,  but  he  had  no 
time  to  educate  himself  further. 


THE    WOMAN  S    PART  101 

He  was  now  twenty-seven,  looking  in  some  ways 
strangely  older,  in  others  far  younger,  than  his  age.  The 
boy  in  him  had  not  had  much  chance  of  surviving 
adolescence.  Life  had  come  down  too  hard  on  him.  A 
grim  struggle  does  not  nourish  youth,  and  mentally 
Reuben  was  ten  or  twelve  years  ahead  of  twenty-seven. 
His  splendid  health  and  strength,  however,  had  main- 
tained a  physical  boyishness,  expressing  itself  in  zeal 
and  high  spirits,  a  keen  appetite,  a  boundless  capacity 
for  work,  an  undaunted  enterprise.  He  was  always 
hungry,  he  fell  asleep  directly  his  head  touched  the 
pillow,  and  slept  like  a  child  beside  the  tossing  and 
wakeful  Naomi. 

His  work  had  made  him  splendid.  His  skin  was  the 
colour  of  the  soil  he  tilled,  a  warm  ruddy  brown,  his  hair 
was  black,  growing  low  on  the  forehead,  and  curling 
slightly  behind  the  ears.  The  moulding  of  his  neck  and 
jaw,  his  eyes,  dark,  bright,  and  not  without  laughter  in 
them,  his  teeth,  big,  white,  and  pointed,  like  an  animal's 
— all  spoke  of  clean  and  vigorous  manhood.  He  was 
now  unmistakably  a  finer  specimen  than  Harry.  Harry 
had  lost  to  a  great  measure  his  good  looks.  Not  only 
had  the  vacancy  of  his  face  robbed  it  of  much  of  its 
attraction — for  more  beautiful  than  shape  or  colouring 
or  feature  had  been  the  free  spirit  that  looked  out  of  his 
eyes— but  his  constant  habit  of  making  hideous 
grimaces  had  worked  it  into  lines,  while  the  scar  of  his 
burning  sometimes  showed  across  his  cheek.  Add  to 
this  a  stoop  and  a  shambling  gait,  and  it  is  no  longer 
"  Beautiful  Harry/'  nor  even  the  ghost  of  him,  so  much 
as  some  changeling,  some  ill-done  counterfeit  image,  set 
up  by  vindictive  nature  in  his  stead. 

Harry  was  no  more  his  mother's  favourite  son.  She 
was  not  the  type  of  woman  to  whom  a  maimed  child 
is  dearer  than  half  a  dozen  healthy  ones.  On  the 
contrary  he  filled  her  with  a  vague  terror  and  repulsion. 
She  spoke  to  him  gently,  tended  him  carefully,  even 


102  SUSSEX    GORSE 

sometimes  forced  herself  to  caress  him — but  for  the 
most  part  she  avoided  him,  feeling  as  she  did  so  a  vague 
shame  and  regret. 

On  the  other  hand,  her  devotion  to  Reuben  grew  more 
and  more  absorbing  and  submissive.  Her  type  was 
obviously  the  tyrant-loving,  the  more  primitive  kind, 
which  worships  the  strong  of  the  tribe  and  recoils 
instinctively  from  the  weak.  Where  many  a  woman, 
perhaps  rougher  and  harder  than  she,  would  have  flung 
all  the  love  and  sweetness  of  her  nature  upon  the 
blasted  Harry,  she  turned  instead  to  the  strong,  stalwart 
Reuben,  who  tyrannised  over  her  and  treated  her  with 
less  and  less  consideration  .  .  .  and  this  after  twenty 
years  of  happy  married  life,  during  which  she  had  idled 
and  been  waited  on,  and  learned  a  hundred  dainty  ways. 

She  had  no  patience  with  Naomi's  simmering 
rebellion ;  she  scoffed  at  her  complaints,  and  always 
took  Reuben's  part  against  her. 

"  As  long  as  there's  men  and  women  in  the  world,  the 
men  'ull  be  top  and  the  women  bottom." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Naomi. 

"  Because  it  wur  meant  so.  If  we'd  bin  meant  fur 
masters  d'you  think  we'd  have  bin  made  so  liddle  and 
dentical  like  ?  " 

"  But  we're  a  sight  smarter  than  men." 

"  Yes — that  makes  up  to  us  a  bit,  but  it  doan't  do  us 
any  real  good  .  .  .  only  helps  us  git  round  a  man  some- 
times when  we  can't  git  over  him." 

"  Then  it  does  us  some  good  after  all.  A  sad  state 
we'd  be  in  if  the  men  always  had  their  own  way." 

"  You  take  it  from  me  that  it's  much  better  when  a 
man  has  his  own  way  than  when  he  hasn't.  Then  he's 
pleased  wud  you  and  makes  life  warm  and  easy  for  you. 
It's  women  as  are  always  going  against  men  wot  are 
unhappy.  Please  men  and  they'll  be  good  to  you  and 
you'll  be  happy,  doan't  please  them  and  they'll  be  bad 
to  you  and  you'll  be  miserable.  But  women  who're  for 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  103 

ever  grumbling,  and  making  a  fuss  about  doing  wot 
they've  got  to  do  whether  they  like  it  or  not,  and  are 
cross-grained  wives,  and  unwilling  mothers  .  .  ."  and 
so  on,  and  so  on. 

Yet  Mrs.  Backfield  did  not,  any  more  than  Naomi, 
understand  Reuben's  great  ambition. 

§10. 

That  autumn  Naomi  entered  on  a  time  of  black 
depression — an  utter  gloom  and  weariness  of  body  and 
mind.  It  was  no  mere  dull  staggering  under  blows, 
merciful  in  its  blindness  and  lack  of  acute  feeling — it 
was  a  clear-eyed  misery,  in  which  every  object  was  as 
distinct  as  it  was  dark,  like  one  of  those  sudden  clearings 
of  a  stormy  landscape,  when  trees,  hedges,  meadows, 
loom  under  the  frowning  sky,  outstanding  and  black  in 
detail,  more  vivid  than  in  sunshine. 

She  saw  now  what  she  was — her  husband's  victim, 
the  tool  of  his  enterprise.  He  had  never  really  loved 
her.  He  had  been  attracted  by  her — her  beauty,  her 
gentleness,  her  breeding,  had  appealed  to  him.  But 
that  was  not  why  he  had  married  her.  He  had  married 
her  for  her  money,  which  he  was  now  spending  on  his 
farm,  and  he  had  married  her  because  he  wanted 
children  and  she  was  the  most  suitable  mother  he  could 
find.  He  had  never  really  loved  her. 

And  she  had  never  really  loved  him.  That  was 
another  of  the  things  she  saw  clearly.  She  had  married 
him  because  his  strength  and  good  looks,  his  ardent 
wooing,  had  turned  her  head,  because  she  had  been 
weak  and  he  had  been  masterful.  But  she  had  never 
loved  him. 

She  had  been  a  fool,  and  now  she  was  paying  the 
price  of  folly,  which  is  always  so  much  heavier  than  the 
price  of  sin.  Here  she  was  at  twenty-five,  prematurely 
old,  exhausted,  sick  of  life,  and  utterly  alone.  There 


104  SUSSEX    GO11SE 

was  no  one  to  turn  to  in  her  wretchedness.  Her  neigh- 
bours were  incapable  of  giving  her  real  help  or  sympathy, 
Mrs.  Backfield  invariably  took  Reuben's  part  and 
resented  the  slightest  criticism  of  him,  old  Gasson  was 
hard  and  selfish,  and  not  particularly  interested  in  his 
daughter. 

She  wished,  with  all  the  wormwood  that  lies  in  use- 
less regrets,  that  she  had  never  married.  Then,  para- 
doxically, she  would  not  have  been  so  utterly  alone. 
She  would  have  had  at  least  the  help  of  sweet  memories 
undefiled.  She  could  have  taken  refuge  in  them  from 
her  sorrow,  built  them  perhaps  at  last  into  hope.  Now 
she  had  to  thrust  them  from  her,  for  they  were  one  and 
all  soiled  by  her  unfaithfulness. 

For  the  first  time  she  began  definitely  to  reproach 
herself  for  her  treatment  of  Harry.  Though  she  could 
never  have  married  him,  she  could  at  least  have  been 
faithful  to  him. 

"  O  why,  because  sickness  hath  wasted  my  body, 

Should  you  do  me  to  death  with  your  dark  treacherie  ? 
O  why,  because  brothers  and  friends  all  have  left  me, 
Should  you  leave  me  too,  O  my  faithless  ladie  !  " 

Moreover,  she  still  sometimes  had  a  vague  feeling  that 
at  the  start  Harry  had  not  been  quite  so  mad  as  people 
thought,  that  he  might  perhaps  have  recovered  if  she 
had  made  him  understand  that  she  was  true  to  him, 
still  hoping.  No  doubt  that  was  all  nonsense,  but  she 
could  not  quite  smother  the  idea  that  she  had  betrayed 
Harry.  Perhaps  it  was  partly  because  even  before  his 
accident  she  had  cast  longing  eyes  at  Reuben.  Once 
again  she  called  up  memories  of  him  cutting  down 
willows  on  his  new  land,  and  she  acknowledged  miserably 
to  herself  that  in  that  hour  she  had  already  been  un- 
faithful to  Harry  in  her  heart,  and  that  all  that  came 
afterwards  was  but  the  following  up  of  that  initial  act 
of  treachery.  A  strong  arm,  a  broad  back,  a  blue  shirt 
in  the  January  twilight  .  .  .  and  Naomi  had  set  out 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  105 

on  a  road  every  step  of  which  was  now  over  rough 
stones  and  broken  shards. 

In  February  her  child  was  born  —  another  girl.  But 
this  time  Reuben  was  not  sorry,  for  he  realised  that  his 
mother  would  not  last  for  ever,  and  that  he  must  have 
a  girl  to  take  her  place.  It  might  have  been  expected 
that  a  baby  girl  would  comfort  Naomi  for  the  lost 
Fanny,  but  such  was  not  the  case.  It  seemed  as  if  with 
Fanny  she  had  lost  all  power  of  loving  and  of  rising 
again.  Once  more  she  was  unable  to  feed  the  child,  and 
her  convalescence  was  dragging  and  miserable.  When 
at  last  she  was  able  to  go  about,  a  permanent  ill-health 
seemed  to  have  settled  on  her,  the  kind  that  rides  tired 
women,  making  their  faces  sallow,  their  hair  scanty, 
filling  their  backs  with  strange  pains.  She  grew  fretful, 
too,  and  her  temper  was  none  of  the  best. 


That  year  Reuben  bought  ten  more  acres  of  Boarzell, 
and  limed  them  for  oats.  He  felt  that  now  he  had 
strength  to  return  to  his  first  battle,  and  wring  a  grain 
crop  out  of  that  grudging  soil.  The  new  piece  of  ground 
abutted  the  Odiam  lands  on  the  Flightshot  side,  and  he 
could  see  it  from  his  window.  Before  going  to  bed  at 
night,  he  would  lean  out  and  feast  his  eyes  on  it  as  it 
lay  there  softly  covered  in  the  dark,  or  glimmering  in  the 
faint  star-dazzle  of  spring.  Sometimes  it  seemed  almost 
as  if  a  breath  came  from  it,  a  fragrance  of  sleep,  and  he 
would  sit  there  inhaling  it  till  Naomi  peevishly  begged 
him  to  shut  the  window  and  come  to  bed.  Then  in  the 
mornings,  when  he  woke  according  to  healthy  habit  at 
five,  he  would  sit  up,  and  even  from  the  bed  he  could 
see  his  land,  waiting  for  him  in  the  cold  whiteness  of 
dawn,  silently  calling  him  out  to  the  freshness  of  its 
many  dews. 

He  still  kept  the  farm  modestly,  for  he  was  anxious  to 


106  SUSSEX    GORSE 

be  able  to  do  without  help  except  from  Beatup.  His 
young  family  were  also  an  expense.  For  a  few  years 
more  he  must  expect  to  have  them  rather  heavily  on  his 
hands  .  .  .  then  Albert  and  the  twins  would  be  able  to 
do  a  little  work,  and  gradually  both  the  capacity  and 
number  of  his  labourers  would  increase,  till  at  last 
perhaps  he  would  be  able  to  discharge  Beatup,  and 
Backfield  alone  fight  Backfield's  battle. 

Meantime  he  was  worried  about  Naomi.  It  says  much 
for  the  ineffectiveness  of  her  emotions  that  he  had  not 
till  just  then  realised  her  hostility  towards  him.  Now 
that  he  saw  it,  he  put  it  down  to  her  ill-health,  and  re- 
established the  tyrannous  watch  over  her  which  he  had 
kept  up  in  the  old  days.  He  was  sorry  for  her,  and  knew 
now  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  marrying  her.  He 
should  have  chosen  a  sturdier,  more  ambitious  mate. 
However,  there  was  no  help  for  it,  he  could  not  give  up 
the  battle  because  his  fellow-fighter  had  no  stomach  for 
it.  He  was  grieved  for  the  loss  of  her  beauty,  and  would 
make  things  as  easy  for  her  as  possible,  but  he  could  not 
let  her  off  altogether.  She  must  do  her  share  in  the 
struggle  which  was  so  much  greater  than  either  of  them. 
She  had  rested  from  child-bearing  a  year,  but  he  still 
longed  desperately  for  children,  and  she  became  a 
mother  again  at  the  end  of  '49. 

The  baby  was  a  girl,  and  Reuben  was  bitterly  dis- 
appointed. One  girl  was  quite  enough,  and  he  badly 
wanted  more  boys.  Besides,  Naomi  was  very  ill,  and 
the  doctor  told  him  in  private  that  she  ought  not  to  have 
any  more  children,  at  least  for  some  time. 

"  She  never  was  a  strong  woman,  and  these  repeated 
confinements  have  quite  worn  her  out.  You  have  seven 
children,  Mr.  Backfield,  and  I  think  that  ought  to  be 
enough  for  any  man/' 

"  But  two  of  them  are  girls — it's  boys  I  want, 
surely  e  !  " 

"  Aren't  five  boys  enough  for  you  ?  " 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  107 

"  No— they  aun't." 

"  Well,  of  course,  if  she  has  a  thorough  rest  from  all 
work  and  worry,  and  recovers  her  health  in  the  mean- 
time, I  don't  say  that  in  three  or  four  years  .  .  .  But 
she's  not  a  strong  subject,  Mr.  Backfield,  and  you'd  do 
well  to  remember  it." 

§12. 

Reuben  was  very  kind  to  Naomi  during  her  illness.  He 
helped  his  mother  to  nurse  her,  and  spent  by  her  side  all 
the  time  he  could  spare  from  the  farm.  He  was  too 
strong  to  vent  on  her  personally  the  rage  and  dis- 
appointment with  which  circumstances  had  filled 
him.  He  pitied  her  fragility,  he  even  pitied  her 
for  the  antagonism  which  he  saw  she  still  felt  to- 
wards him. 

At  nights  he  slept  upstairs  in  one  of  the  attics,  which 
always  smelt  of  apples,  because  it  was  next  to  the  loft 
where  the  apples  were  stored.  He  was  happy  there,  in 
spite  of  some  dark  hours  when  the  deadlock  of  his 
married  life  kept  him  awake.  He  wondered  if  there  was 
a  woman  in  the  world  who  could  share  his  ambitions  for 
Odiam.  He  expected  not,  for  women  were  an  ambition - 
less  race.  If  Naomi  had  had  a  single  spark  of  zeal  for 
the  great  enterprise  in  which  he  and  she  were  engaged, 
she  would  not  now  be  lying  exhausted  by  her  share  in  it. 
He  had  honoured  her  by  asking  her  to  join  him  in  this 
splendid  undertaking,  and  all  she  had  done  had  been  to 
prove  that  she  had  no  fight  in  her. 

He  could  now  gaze  out  on  Boarzell  uninterrupted. 
The  sight  of  the  great  Moor  made  his  blood  tingle  ;  his 
whole  being  thrilled  to  see  it  lying  there,  swart,  un- 
conquered,  challenging.  How  long  would  it  be,  he 
wondered,  before  he  had  subdued  it  ?  Surely  in  all 
Sussex,  in  all  England,  there  had  never  been  such  an 
undertaking  as  this  .  .  .  and  when  he  was  triumphant, 
had  achieved  his  great  ambition,  won  his  heart's  desire, 


108  SUSSEX    GORSE 

how    proud,    how    glorious   he   would    be    among    his 
children.  .... 

The  wind  would  carry  him  the  scent  of  gorse,  like 
peaches  and  apricots.  There  was  something  in  that 
scent  which  both  mocked  and  delighted  him.  It  was  an 
irony  that  the  huge  couchant  beast  of  Boarzell  should 
smell  so  sweet — surely  the  wind  should  have  brought 
him  a  pungent  ammoniacal  smell  like  the  smell  of 
stables  ...  or  perhaps  the  smell  of  blood. 

But,  after  all,  this  subtle  gorse-fragrance  had  its 
suitableness,  for  though  gorse  may  cast  out  the  scent  of 
soft  fruit  from  its  flowers,  its  stalks  are  wire  and  its 
roots  iron,  its  leaves  are  so  many  barbs  for  those  who 
would  lay  hands  on  its  sweetness.  It  was  like  Boarzell 
itself,  which  was  Reuben's  delight  and  his  dread,  his 
beloved  and  his  enemy. 

The  day  would  come  when  Boarzell  would  no  longer 
drench  the  night  with  perfume,  when  the  gorse  would 
be  torn  out  of  its  hide  to  make  room  for  the  scentless 
grain.  Then  Reuben  would  no  longer  lean  out  of  his 
window  and  dream  of  it,  for  dreams,  like  the  peach- 
scent  of  the  gorse,  would  go  when  the  corn  came.  But 
those  days  were  not  yet. 

Naomi's  illness  dragged.  Sometimes  Reuben  sus- 
pected her  of  malingering,  she  so  obviously  did  not  want 
to  get  well.  He  guessed  her  reasons,  and  took  an 
opportunity  to  tell  her  of  the  doctor's  verdict.  The 
struggle  was  in  abeyance — at  least  her  share  of  it. 
Nature — which  was  really  what  he  was  fighting  in 
Boarzell — had  gained  a  temporary  advantage,  and  his 
outposts  had  been  forced  to  retire. 

Naomi  began  now  decidedly  to  improve.  She  put  on 
flesh,  and  showed  a  faint  interest  in  life.  Towards  the 
end  of  April  she  was  able  to  come  downstairs.  She  was 
obviously  much  better,  and  old  Mrs.  Backfield  hinted 
that  she  was  even  better  than  she  looked.  Reuben 
watched  over  her  anxiously,  delighted  to  notice  day  by 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  100 

viciy  fresh  signs  of  strength.  She  began  to  do  little 
things  for  the  children,  she  even  seemed  proud  of  them. 
They  were  splendid  children,  but  it  was  the  first  time 
that  she  had  realised  it.  She  helped  the  scholastic 
elders  with  their  sums  and  made  frocks  for  the  little 
girls.  She  even  allowed  baby  Mathilda  to  wear  Fanny's 
shoes. 

The  summer  wore  on.  The  sallow  tints  in  Naomi's 
skin  were  exchanged  for  the  buttery  ones  which  used  to 
be  before  her  marriage.  Her  hair  ceased  to  fall,  her 
cheeks  plumped  out,  her  voice  lost  its  weak  shrillness. 
She  made  herself  a  muslin  gown,  and  Reuben  bought 
ribbons  for  it  at  Rye. 

The  husband  and  wife  now  lived  quite  independently. 
They  no  longer  made  even  the  pretence  of  walking  on 
the  same  path.  Naomi  played  with  the  children,  did  a 
little  sewing  and  housework — exactly  what  she  chose — 
and  occasionally  went  over  to  Totease  or  Burntbarns 
for  a  chat  with  the  neighbours.  She  once  even  spent  a 
couple  of  nights  at  her  father's,  the  first  time  since  her 
marriage  that  she  had  slept  away  from  Odiam. 

As  for  Reuben,  he  worked  as  hard  as  ever,  but  never 
spoke  of  it  to  his  wife.  He  seemed  to  enjoy  her  society 
at  meals,  and  now  and  then  would  take  her  out  for  a 
stroll  along  the  lanes,  or  sit  with  her  in  the  evening  by 
the  kitchen  fire.  Once  more  he  liked  to  have  her  read 
him  the  papers  ;  and  though  she  understood  no  more 
than  she  had  ever  done,  her  voice  had  ceased  to  be  dull 
and  fretful.  Then  at  night  he  would  go  up  to  his  attic 
and  drink  in  the  smell  of  gorse  at  the  window,  till  he 
grew  drowsy  and  shut  himself  in  with  the  smell  of 
apples. 

After  a  time  they  began  to  notice  a  convergence  in 
these  independent  ways.  It  seemed  as  if  only  by 
running  apart  had  they  learned  at  last  to  run  together. 
A  certain  friendliness  and  comradery  began  to  estab- 
lish itself  between  them.  Reuben  began  to  talk  to  Naomi 


110  SUSSEX    GORSE 

about  politics  and  agricultural  doings,  and  gradually 
her  character  underwent  a  strange  blossoming.  She 
became  far  more  adult  in  her  opinions  ;  she  took  interest 
in  matters  outside  her  household  and  immediate  sur- 
roundings. He  never  spoke  to  her  of  his  plans  for 
Boarzell,  for  that  would  have  brought  them  back  into 
the  old  antagonism  and  unrest ;  but  when  she  read  the 
papers  to  him  he  would  discuss  them  with  her,  occasion- 
ally interrupt  her  with  comments,  and  otherwise  show 
that  he  had  to  do  with  an  intelligent  being.  She  in  her 
turn  would  enquire  into  the  progress  of  the  hops  or  the 
oats,  ask  him  if  his  new  insect-killer  was  successful,  or 
whether  Ditch  had  done  well  with  his  harvest,  or  how 
much  Realf's  had  fetched  at  the  corn-market. 

Three  months  passed  in  this  new  way.  Reuben  would 
never  have  believed  that  Naomi  could  be  a  companion 
to  him,  especially  after  the  last  few  hostile  years.  As 
for  her,  she  looked  young  and  pretty  again ;  delicious 
slim  lines  had  come  into  her  figure — no  longer  the  slack 
curves  and  emaciation  of  recent  months,  or  the  matronly 
fullness  of  earlier  times.  Her  health  seemed  completely 
restored. 

Then  came  a  day  early  in  December,  when  they  were 
walking  home  together  through  the  mud  of  Totease 
Lane,  their  faces  whipped  into  redness  by  the  south- 
west wind.  Naomi  wore  a  russet  cloak  and  hood,  and 
her  hair,  on  which  a  few  rain-drops  glistened,  was 
teasing  her  eyes.  She  held  Reuben's  arm,  for  the  ruts 
were  treacherous,  and  he  noticed  the  spring  and  freedom 
of  her  walk.  A  sudden  turn  of  the  lane  brought  them 
round  due  west,  and  between  them  and  the  sunset  stood 
Boarzell,  its  club  of  firs  knobbily  outlined  against  the 
grape-red  sky.  It  smote  itself  upon  Reuben's  eyes 
almost  as  a  thing  forgotten — there,  half  blotting  out  the 
sunset  with  its  blackness.  Unconsciously  his  arm  with 
Naomi's  hand  on  it  contracted  against  his  side,  while 
the  colour  deepened  on  his  cheek-bones. 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  111 

"  Naomi." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Boarzell." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  shape  between  her  and  the 
sky,  and  as  unconsciously  he  had  flushed  so  uncon- 
sciously she  shuddered. 

"  Well,  what  about  it  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  voice  that 
stuck  a  little. 

"  It's  wunnerful  .  .  ."  he  murmured,  "  all  that 
great  big  dark  Moor,  wot's  going  to  be  mine." 

She  did  not  speak. 

"  Mine  !  "  he  repeated  almost  fiercely. 

Then  suddenly  she  began  to  plead : 

"  Can't  you  let  it  alone,  Reuben  ? — we — we've  been 
so  happy  these  last  months  not  worrying  about  it.  Must 
we  ever  start  again  ?  " 

Her  voice  came  anxiously,  timidly  like  a  child's. 
He  dropped  her  hand  from  his  arm. 

"  Yes — we  must,"  he  said  shortly. 

They  reached  Odiam,  both  feeling  that  the  glory  of 
those  last  three  months  had  departed.  The  sight  of 
Boarzell,  lying  black  and  hullish  across  their  path,  had 
made  them  realise  that  their  happiness  was  but  an 
interval,  an  interlude  between  more  significant,  more 
sinister  things.  Naomi  had  lost  her  peace  and  confidence, 
she  seemed  to  avoid  her  husband,  was  tongue-tied  in 
his  presence,  gave  him  a  hurried  good  night  from  the 
door.  Reuben  was  silent  and  meditative — when  his  eyes 
rested  on  Naomi  they  were  half  regretful. 

That  night  he  lay  awake  long  hours  in  the  smell  of 
apples.  He  pondered  many  things.  Those  past  months 
had  been  sweet  in  their  revived  tenderness,  their  simple 
freedom.  But  Boarzell  had  reasserted  itself — Naomi 
was  now  quite  well  again — she  must  no  longer  shirk  her 
duties.  She  must  have  more  children. 

It  was  cruel,  he  knew.  She  had  already  given  him 
seven,  she  could  not  realise  that  her  task  was  not  yet 


112  SUSSEX    6ORSE 

done.  She  had  just  felt  what  it  was  to  be  well  and 
strong  again  after  long  months  of  illness.  It  would  be 
cruel  to  impose  on  her  once  more  the  pains  and  weariness 
of  motherhood.  It  would  be  cruel. — But,  hem  it  all  ! 
was  not  the  thing  he  was  fighting  cruel  ?  Was  not 
Boarzell  cruel,  meeting  his  endeavours  with  every  form 
of  violence  and  treachery  ?  If  he  was  to  conquer  it  he 
too  must  be  cruel,  must  harden  his  heart,  and  press 
forward,  without  caring  how  much  he  or  anyone  bled  on 
the  way.  He  could  not  stop  to  consider  even  his  nearest 
and  dearest  when  his  foe  had  neither  mercy  nor  ruth 
for  him. 

§13. 

It  was  the  August  of  another  year.  Reuben's  new 
land  on  Boarzell  was  tawny  with  oats.  He  had  at  last 
broken  into  that  defiant  earth  and  taken  handfuls  of 
its  treasure.  To-day  he  inspected  his  crop,  and  planned 
for  its  reaping.  With  parted  lips  and  a  faint  sensuous 
gleam  in  his  eyes  he  watched  it  bow  and  ripple  before 
the  little  breeze  that  stole  over  the  hedges  from  Tiffen- 
den.  He  drank  in  the  scent  of  the  baking  awns,  the 
heat  of  the  sun-cracked  earth.  It  was  all  dear  to  him — 
all  ecstasy.  And  he  himself  was  dear  to  himself  because 
the  beauty  of  it  fell  upon  him  .  .  .  his  body,  strong  and 
tired,  smelling  a  little  of  sweat,  his  back  scorched  by  the 
heat  in  which  he  had  bent,  his  hand  strong  as  iron  upon 
his  sickle.  Oh  Lord  !  it  was  good  to  be  a  man,  to  feel 
the  sap  of  life  and  conquest  running  in  you,  to  be  battling 
with  mighty  forces,  to  be  able  to  fight  seasons,  elements, 
earth,  and  nature.  .  .  . 

He  turned  and  walked  slowly  homewards,  a  smile  on 
his  lips.  As  he  passed  the  orchard,  where  a  crop  of 
plums  was  ripening,  the  shrill  whir  of  a  bird -rattle 
made  him  look  up.  There  in  the  long  grass  stood  his 
young  Albert,  dutifully  scaring  sparrows  from  the  trees. 
He  had  been  there  all  the  afternoon,  and  Reuben 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  113 

beckoned  to  him  to  come  in  to  tea.  Further  on,  in  the 
yard,  he  encountered  Robert  feeding  the  chickens  out 
of  an  enormous  bowl  carried  by  Pete,  whose  arms  with 
difficulty  embraced  its  girth.  He  summoned  these  two 
in.  His  family  trotted  after  him  at  a  respectful  distance. 
They  did  not  speak,  except  to  say  "  Oo  "  occasionally 
to  each  other. 

In  the  kitchen  a  substantial  meal  was  prepared.  It 
was  the  children's  supper,  and  was  to  last  Reuben  till 
he  came  in  at  nine  o'clock  and  had  a  bowl  of  broth  before 
going  to  bed.  Old  Mrs.  Backfield  was  settling  the 
children  round  the  table.  Caro  and  Tilly  showed  only 
their  heads  above  the  cloth,  a  piece  of  neck  proclaimed 
Benjamin's  extra  inches,  while  Richard  had  quite  two 
buttons  to  his  credit.  Harry  sat  at  the  bottom  beside 
Caroline ;  when  he  heard  Albert's  rattle,  he  seized  it 
and  began  making  a  hideous  din.  Caro  and  Tilly  began 
to  cry,  and  Reuben  snatched  the  rattle  away. 

He  sat  down,  and  immediately  his  mother  put  a  plate 
of  hot  bacon  before  him.  She  was  vexed  because  it  was 
the  only  meat  he  allowed  himself  on  week-days.  The 
children  ate  bread  and  milk,  and  thrived  on  it,  to  judge 
by  their  round  healthy  faces.  Reuben  was  proud  of 
them.  They  were  fine  children,  and  he  hoped  that  the 
one  that  was  coming  would  be  as  sturdy. 

"  How  is  she  ?  "  he  asked  Mrs.  Backfield. 

"  She  slept  a  bit  this  afternoon.  I  took  her  a  cup  of 
tea  at  five,  but  I  think  the  heat  tries  her." 

"  I'll  go  up  and  see  her  soon  as  I've  finished — Harry, 
taake  your  hand  out  of  the  baby's  plaate." 

As  soon  as  the  supper  was  over,  Reuben  still  munching 
bread  and  bacon  went  up  to  his  wife's  room.  The 
sunlight  was  gone,  but  the  sky  was  blood-red  behind 
Boarzell's  hulk,  and  a  flushed  afterglow  hung  on  the 
ceiling  and  moved  slowly  like  a  fire  over  the  bed.  The 
corners  of  the  room,  the  shadows  cast  by  the  furniture, 
were  black  and  smoky.  On  Naomi's  face,  on  her  body 


114  SUSSEX    GORSE 

outlined  under  the  sheet,  the  lights  crimsoned  and 
smouldered.  There  was  a  strange  fiery  reflection  in  her 
eyes  as  she  turned  them  to  the  door. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  very  well,  thank  you,  Backfield." 

She  always  said  that. 

He  came  over  to  the  bed  and  looked  down  on  her. 
Her  eyes  were  haunting  .  .  .  and  the  vestiges  of  youth 
about  her  face.  But  he  no  longer  pitied  or  spared. 
Boarzell  had  taught  him  his  first  lesson — that  only  the 
hard  shall  triumph  in  the  hard  fight,  and  that  he  who 
would  spare  his  brother  shall  do  no  better  than  he  who 
would  spare  himself. 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"  I  hear  you  had  some  sleep  this  afternoon." 

"  Yes — I  slept  for  an  hour.    I  think  I'm  better." 

Her  voice  was  submissive — or  indifferent. 

"  I've  bin  on  the  new  land  all  to-day.  It's  doing 
just  about  splendid.  Those  oats  are  as  dentical  as  wheat 
— not  a  sedge-leaf  adin  them." 

She  made  a  faint  sound  to  show  that  she  had  heard 
him. 

"  Albert's  bin  in  the  orchard  scaring  sparrers,  and 
Robert  and  Pete  wur  helping  wud  the  chickens.  My 
family's  gitting  quite  valiant  now,  Mrs.  Backfield." 

"  Yes." 

"  I'll  soon  be  able  to  have  Richard  on,  and  then 
there's  still  Jemmy  to  f oiler — and  George." 

"  Mmm." 

"  Now  doan't  you  put  me  off  wud  Georgina." 

Her  mouth  stretched  mechanically  into  a  smile,  and 
at  the  same  time  a  tear  slid  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye, 
and  rolled  slowly  over  her  thin  cheeks.  In  the  red, 
smouldering  light  of  the  sky  behind  Boarzell  it  looked 
like  a  tear  of  blood. 


THE    WOMAN'S    PART  115 


§14- 

Early  in  September  George  arrived.  Reuben's  face 
kindled  when  the  doctor  told  him  he  had  escaped 
Georgina. 

The  doctor,  however,  did  not  look  pleased. 

"  Perhaps  now  you  have  enough  boys  ?  "  he  said  rather 
truculently. 

"  Well,  there's  six  .  .  ." 

"  I  hope  that's  enough  to  satisfy  you.  Because  there 
won't  be  any  more  —  •  —  She's  dying." 


He  repeated  the  word  almost  stupidly. 

"  Yes  "  —  said  Dr.  Espinette.  He  did  not  feel  inclined 
to  mince  matters  with  Backfield. 

"  But  —  but  —  can't  you  do  anything  for  her,  surelye  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  not.  Of  course,  one  can  never  speak  with 
absolute  certainty  even  in  a  case  like  this.  But  -  " 
and  the  doctor  wasted  some  medical  technicalities  on 
Reuben. 

The  young  man  turned  from  him,  half-dazed.  Dying  ! 
Naomi  !  A  sudden  wild  pang  smote  through  his  heart 
for  the  mother  of  his  children. 

"  Do  something  for  her  !   you  can  —  you  must." 

"  I'm  going  over  to  Gablehook  now,  but  I'll  call  in  on 
the  way  back.  I'm  afraid  there's  not  much  hope  ;  how- 
ever, I'll  do  my  best." 

Reuben's  sudden  pallor  and  blank  eyes  had  softened 
his  heart  a  little.  But,  he  reflected  the  next  moment, 
there  was  no  sense  in  pitying  Backfield. 

Reuben  did  not  wait  any  longer  —  he  dashed  out  of  the 
room  and  upstairs  to  his  wife's  door. 

He  knocked.  From  within  came  a  faint  sound  of 
moaning.  He  knocked  again.  The  midwife  opened  the 
door. 

"  Go  away,"  she  said,  "  we  can't  let  you  in." 


116  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  I  want  to  see  Naomi/' 

"  You  can't/' 

"  I  must.    Hem  it !   aun't  I  her  husband  ?  " 

'  You  can  come  back  in  an  hour  or  two.  But 
you  must  go  now — "  and  she  shut  the  door  in  his 
face. 

Reuben  slunk  away,  angry  and  miserable. 

He  pottered  about  the  farm  all  the  morning.  Somehow 
these  terrible  events  reminded  him  of  the  birth  of  his 
first  child,  when  he  had  moped  and  fretted  and  sulked 
—and  all  for  nothing.  That  seemed  twenty  years  ago. 
Now  he  did  not  fret  for  nothing.  His  wife  was  dying, 
still  young,  still  sometimes  beautiful.  His  mind  was 
full  of  jumbled  memories  of  her — he  saw  her  as  Harry's 
sweetheart,  sitting  with  him  on  Boarzell  while  he  sang ; 
he  saw  her  in  the  dairy  where  he  had  first  kissed  her 
stooping  over  the  cream ;  he  saw  her  as  his  bride,  flushed 
and  timid  beside  him  at  the  wedding-feast,  as  the 
mother  of  his  boys,  proud  and  full-bosomed.  But 
mostly  his  thoughts  were  more  trivial  and  tattered — 
memories  of  her  in  certain  gowns,  in  a  cap  she  had 
bought  because,  having  three  little  boys,  she  thought 
she  must  "  dress  older  "  ;  memories  of  little  things  she 
had  said — "  Why  don't  you  keep  bees,  Reuben  ?  Why 
don't  you  keep  bees  ?  They're  such  pretty  things,  and 
I  like  the  honey.  .  .  ." 

Towards  two  in  the  afternoon  he  came  in,  tired  and 
puff-eyed  with  misery,  his  brain  all  of  a  jangle.  "  Why 
don't  you  keep  bees,  Reuben  ?  Why  don't  you  keep 
bees  ?  " 

He  sat  down  at  the  table  which  the  children  had  left, 
and  mechanically  began  to  eat.  His  healthy  young 
body  claimed  its  dues,  and  almost  without  knowing  it 
he  cleared  the  plate  before  him.  Harry  sat  in  the 
chimney  corner,  murmuring,  "  Why  doan't  you  kip 
bees,  Reuben?  Why  doan't  you  kip  bees?  "• — showing 
that  he  had  uttered  his  thoughts  aloud,  just  as  the 


THE   WOMAN'S   PART  117 

empty  platters  showed  him  he  had  made  a  very  good 
dinner. 

At  last,  strengthened  by  the  food,  he  went  up  to 
Naomi's  room  again.  This  time  he  was  admitted. 

She  lay  propped  high  on  the  pillows,  and  he  was 
astonished  to  see  how  well  she  looked,  much  better  than 
before  the  baby  was  born.  The  infant  George  lay  like 
a  rather  ugly  doll  on  his  grandmother's  lap.  He  was  not 
so  healthy  as  the  other  children,  indeed  for  a  time  it  had 
been  doubtful  whether  he  would  live. 

Naomi  smiled  feebly,  and  that  smile,  so  wan,  so 
patient,  so  utterly  wistful,  so  utterly  unregretful,  with 
which  almost  every  mother  first  greets  the  father  of  her 
child,  went  straight  to  Reuben's  heart.  He  fell  on  his 
knees  by  the  bed,  and  covered  her  hand  and  her  thin 
arm  with  kisses. 

"  Naomi,  my  darling,  my  love,  git  well — you  mustn't 
die  and  leave  me." 

Actually  his  tears  fell  on  her  hand,  and  a  rather  bitter 
compassion  for  him  drove  away  the  more  normal  mood. 
He  had  killed  her,  and  he  was  sorry  for  it.  But  if  he  had 
it  all  to  do  over  again  he  would  do  it,  for  the  sake  of  the 
land  which  was  so  much  more  to  him  than  her  life. 

"  My  sweet,"  he  murmured,  holding  her  palm  against 
his  mouth,  "  my  liddle  creature,  my  liddle  sweet.  Git 
well,  and  you  shan't  never  have  to  go  through  this 
agaun.  Six  boys  is  all  I'll  want  to  help  me,  surely e — 
and  you  shall  rest  and  be  happy,  liddle  wife,  and  be 
proud  of  your  children  and  the  gurt  things  they're 
going  to  do." 

She  smiled  with  that  same  bitter  compassion,  and 
stroked  his  head  with  her  feeble  hand. 

"  How  thick  your  hair  is,"  she  said,  and  weakly  took 
a  handful  of  it,  as  she  had  sometimes  done  when  she 
was  well. 

When  he  left  her,  ten  minutes  later,  she  struck  him  as 
better.  He  could  not  quite  smother  the  hope  that  Dr. 


118  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Espinette  was  mistaken  and  that  she  would  recover 
with  nursing  and  care.  After  all,  even  the  doctor  him- 
self had  said  that  one  could  never  be  certain.  He  felt 
his  spirits  revive,  and  called  Beatup  to  go  with  him  to 
the  hop-fields. 

Naomi  heard  him  tramp  off,  talking  of  "  goldings  " 
and  "  fuggles."  She  lay  very  still,  hoping  that  the 
light  would  soon  go,  and  give  rest  to  her  tired  eyes — but 
she  was  too  utterly  weary  to  ask  Mrs.  Backfield  to  draw 
the  curtains.  Her  mother-in-law  put  the  baby  back  in 
its  cradle,  then  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  folding 
her  arms  over  her  breast.  She  was  tired  after  her 
labours  in  the  house  and  in  the  sick-room,  and  soon 
she  began  to  doze.  Naomi  felt  more  utterly  alone  than 
before. 

Her  fingers  plucked  nervously  at  the  sheet.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  strange  tickling  irritation  in  her  skin, 
while  her  feet  were  dreadfully  cold.  She  wondered 
rather  dully  about  the  baby — she  supposed  he  could  not 
come  to  any  harm  over  there  in  the  cradle  by  himself, 
but  really  she  did  not  care  much — it  was  all  one  to  her 
what  happened  to  him. 

Gradually  the  sun  slanted  and  glowed,  and  a  faint 
ripple  of  air  stole  into  the  room,  lifting  the  hair  on  her 
forehead,  tangled  and  damp.  It  struck  her  that  she 
must  be  looking  very  ugly — she  who  had  used  to  be  such 
a  pretty  girl. 

The  light  trembled  and  pearled,  and  in  a  swift  last 
clearness  she  saw  the  great  Moor  rolling  up  against  the 
sky,  purple  with  heather,  golden  with  gorse,  all  strength 
and  life.  It  seemed  to  mock  her  savagely — "  I  live — 
you  die.  You  die — I  live."  It  was  this  hateful  land 
which  had  killed  her,  to  which  she  had  been  sacrificed, 
and  now  it  seemed  to  flaunt  its  beauty  and  life  and 
vigour  before  her  dying  eyes.  "  I  live — you  die.  You 
die—I  live." 

Yes,  she  was  dying — and  she  hoped  that  she  would  die 


THE   WOMAN'S    PART  119 

before  Reuben  came  back.  She  did  not  want  to  feel 
again  that  strange,  half-bitter  compassion  for  him.  The 
tears  ran  quite  fast  down  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were 
growing  dim.  This  was  the  end,  and  she  knew  it.  The 
evening  was  full  of  tender  life,  but  for  her  it  was  the  end. 
Ambition  and  folly  had  stolen  her  out  of  all  this  fresh- 
ness before  the  spring  of  her  life  had  run.  She  was  like 
a  young  birch  tree  blighted  with  its  April  leafage  half 
uncurled. 

The  tears  splashed  and  dribbled  on,  till  at  last  for 
some  purely  physical  reason  they  stopped.  Then  a 
familiar  tune  swam  into  her  head.  She  had  been  told 
of  people  who  heard  music  when  they  were  dying. 

"  At  last  when  your  pride  shall  have  brought  you  to  sorrow, 

And  years  of  remorse  and  despair  been  your  fate, 

Perhaps  your  cold  heart  will  remember  Seth's  Manor, 

And  turn  to  your  true  love — and  find  it  too  late." 

But  her  mind  was  too  dim  even  for  regrets.  Instead, 
she  seemed  to  see  herself  dancing  with  Reuben  at 
Boarzell  Fair,  when  the  dusk  had  been  full  of  strange 
whirling  lights,  whispers,  and  kisses. 

Dancing  !  .  .  .  dancing  !  .  .  .  Dying  !  .  .  .  dying  ! 
Even  the  tune  had  faded  now,  and  she  could  see  nothing 
— only  a  grey  patch  where  the  window  had  been.  She 
was  not  frightened,  only  very  lonely.  Her  legs  were 
like  ice,  and  the  inside  of  her  mouth  felt  all  rough  and 
numb. 

.  .  .  Even  the  window  had  faded.  Her  head  had 
fallen  sideways  on  the  pillow,  and  behind  Boarzell  the 
sky  had  kindled  into  a  sheet  of  soaring  triumphant 
flame. 

"  I  live — you  die.    You  die— I  live." 


BOOK   III 
THE   ELDER  CHILDREN 


FOR  some  time  after  Naomi's  death  Reuben  was 
sick  with  grief.      Her  going  had  been  so  cruel, 
so  unexpected  —  and  he  could  not  forget    how 
they  had  found  her,  her  eyelashes  wetted  with  tears. 

He  also  missed  her  in  the  house  —  her  soft  pale  face 
and  gentle  ways.  He  forgot  the  sallowness  and  the 
peevishness  of  later  years,  and  pictured  her  always 
with  creamy  roseal  skin  and  timid  voice.  He  was  the 
only  one  who  missed  her.  Mrs.  Backfield's  softer 
feelings  seemed  to  have  been  atrophied  by  hard  work  — 
she  grew  daily  more  and  more  like  a  machine  ;  the 
children  were  too  young  to  care  much,  and  Harry  was 
incapable  of  regret.  However,  the  strange  thing  about 
Harry  was  that  he  did  indeed  seem  to  miss  someone, 
but  not  Naomi.  For  the  first  time  since  little  Fanny's 
death  he  began  to  ask  for  her,  and  search  for  her  about 
the  house  —  "  Where's  the  pretty  baby  ?•  —  oh,  save  the 
pretty  baby  !  "  he  would  wail  —  (<  she's  gone,  she's  gone 
—  the  pretty  baby's  gone." 

Reuben,  as  was  usual  with  him,  tried  to  drown 
sorrow  in  hard  work.  He  spent  his  whole  day  either  in 
the  yard  or  in  the  fields  or  out  on  Boarzell.  He  was 
digging  a  ditch  round  his  new  land,  to  let  off  the  winter 
rain,  and  throughout  the  cool  November  damps  he  was 
on  the  Moor,  watching  the  sunset's  fiery  glow  behind 
the  gorse,  seeing  the  red  clay  squash  and  crumble 

120 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  121 

thickly  under  his  spade — spouting  out  drops  of  blood. 
In  time  all  this  fire  and  blood  brought  him  back  into  his 
old  purpose.  Gradually  the  lust  of  conquest  drove 
away  regret.  He  had  no  more  cause  for  self-reproach 
than  an  officer  who  loses  a  good  soldier  in  battle.  It  is 
the  fortune  of  war.  And  Naomi  had  not  died  without 
accomplishing  her  work  and  giving  him  men  to  help 
him  in  the  fight. 

The  young  Backfields  were  beginning  to  grow  into 
individualities.  Albert,  the  eldest,  was  eight,  and 
showed  certain  tokens  of  a  wilful  nature,  which  had  not 
much  chance  where  his  father  was  concerned.  Strange 
fits  of  dreaminess  alternated  with  vigorous  fits  of  passion. 
He  was  a  difficult  child  to  manage,  for  in  addition  to 
his  own  moods  he  had  a  certain  corrupting  influence 
over  his  more  docile  brothers.  Reuben  already  kept 
him  at  work  most  of  the  day — either  at  the  village 
school,  or  scaring  birds  from  the  orchard  or  the  grain 
fields. 

Robert  and  Peter  also  did  their  share,  feeding  fowls, 
weeding  vegetables.  Robert  was  a  stolid,  well-behaved 
child,  a  trifle  uninteresting,  but  hard-working  and 
obedient.  Pete  was  Reuben's  delight — a  wonderfully 
sturdy  little  fellow,  who  often  amazed  his  father  and 
Beatup  by  his  precocious  feats  of  strength.  To  amuse 
them  he  would  sometimes  shoulder  Beatup's  tools,  or 
pick  up  a  bag  of  chicken-meal  with  his  teeth — he  could 
even  put  his  back  against  a  young  calf  and  prevent  it 
entering  a  gate  or  reaching  its  stall.  Reuben  was 
careful  not  to  let  him  strain  himself,  but  he  loved  to 
handle  his  son's  arms  and  shoulders,  feeling  the  swell  of 
the  muscles  under  the  skin.  He  even  taught  him  the 
rudiments  of  boxing  ;  he  had  had  some  practice  himself 
as  a  boy  in  the  Fair  sparring  booth,  and  though  of  late 
years  he  had  been  too  busy  to  keep  it  up,  he  was  a  good 
teacher  for  little  Pete,  who  could  soon  lick  all  his  brothers 
and  even  deliver  respectable  punishment  on  Beatup's 


122  SUSSEX    GORSE 

nether  limbs.  Richard  at  the  age  of  six  was  not  of  any 
great  agricultural  value,  but  at  the  village  school  he 
outshone  the  elder  boys.  Sometimes  he  gave  Reuben 
anxious  moments,  for  the  smell  of  the  midden  now  and 
then  made  him  sick,  which  was  scarcely  a  hopeful  sign. 
The  younger  children  were  to  their  father  so  many 
bundles — meek  and  mute,  but  good  to  count  as  they 
sat  at  table  with  porridge  bowls  and  staring  eyes.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  to  pick  any  of  them  up  and 
caress  them.  Indeed  they  had  no  very  distinct  person- 
alities apart  from  Ocliam,  though  Tilly  sometimes 
looked  uncomfortably  like  Naomi. 

§2. 

Towards  the  end  of  '53,  Reuben  bought  a  pedigree 
bull  at  Rye  market.  He  knew  that  he  could  increase 
his  importance  and  effectiveness  in  the  neighbourhood 
if  he  started  as  a  cattle-breeder,  and  there  was  also  a 
sound  profit  to  be  made  by  the  animal's  hiring  fees. 
The  next  year  he  bought  ten  acres  more  of  Boarzell  for 
grass. 

He  had  now  spent  the  whole  of  Naomi's  dowry,  and 
knew  that  he  was  not  likely  to  get  anything  more  out 
of  old  Gasson,  whose  housekeeper  had  during  the  last 
year  smartly  married  him.  However,  he  felt  that  the 
money  had  been  laid  out  to  the  very  best  advantage, 
for  Odiam  was  paying  its  way,  and  had,  besides,  of  late 
become  the  most  important  farm  in  the  neighbourhood 
except  Grandturzel.  Reuben  watched  Grandturzel 
jealously,  though  he  was  careful  to  hide  his  feelings.  It 
had  the  advantage  of  forty  acres  of  Boarzell,  granted  by 
the  commissioners.  Luckily  old  Realf  was  not  very 
enterprising. 

In  spite  of  the  farm's  new  activities,  he  found  that  he 
could  still  manage  without  engaging  fresh  labour.  The 
odds  and  ends  of  work  which  his  boys  took  off  him  and 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  123 

Beatup  left  them  free  to  attack  the  bigger  enterprises. 
And  as  Odiam  grew  the  children  would  grow.  Even 
now  they  were  all  impressed  for  service,  except  little 
George,  who  was  delicate  and,  moreover,  subject  to 
fits.  Their  work  was  varied — they  scared  birds  from  the 
crops,  fed  the  poultry,  collected  the  eggs,  drove  the  cows 
to  and  from  pasture,  fed  the  pigs,  ran  errands  to  the 
neighbouring  farms.  In  course  of  time  Albert  learned 
milking,  and  could  saddle  old  Crump  the  roan,  or  put 
him  into  the  gig. 

Then,  in  the  house,  the  little  girls  were  useful.  Mrs. 
Backfield  was  not  so  energetic  as  she  used  to  be.  She 
had  never  been  a  robust  woman,  and  though  her 
husband's  care  had  kept  her  well  and  strong,  her  frame 
was  not  equal  to  Reuben's  demands ;  after  fourteen 
years'  hard  labour,  she  suffered  from  rheumatism, 
which  though  seldom  acute,  was  inclined  to  make  her 
stiff  and  slow.  It  was  here  that  Caro  and  Tilly  came 
in,  and  Reuben  began  to  appreciate  his  girls.  After  all, 
girls  were  needed  in  a  house — and  as  for  young  men  and 
marriage,  their  father  could  easily  see  that  such  follies 
did  not  spoil  their  usefulness  or  take  them  from  him. 
Caro  and  Tilly  helped  their  grandmother  in  all  sorts  of 
ways — they  dusted,  they  watched  pots,  they  shelled 
peas  and  peeled  potatoes,  they  darned  house-linen, 
they  could  even  make  a  bed  between  them. 

Needless  to  say  there  was  not  much  playtime  at 
Odiam. 

§3- 

During  the  next  ten  years  the  farm  went  forward  by 
strides.  Reuben  bought  seven  more  acres  of  Boarzell 
in  '59,  and  fourteen  in  '60.  He  also  bought  a  horse-rake, 
and  threshed  by  machinery.  He  was  now  a  topic  in 
every  public-house  from  Northiam  to  Rye.  His  success 
and  the  scant  trouble  he  took  to  conciliate  those  about 
him  had  made  him  disliked.  Unprosperous  farmers 


124  SUSSEX    GORSE 

spoke  windily  of  "  spoiling  his  liddle  game."  Ditch  and 
Ginner  even  suggested  to  Vennal  that  they  should  club 
together  and  buy  thirty  acres  or  so  of  the  Moor  them- 
selves, just  to  spite  him.  However,  money  was  too 
precious  to  throw  away  even  on  such  an  object,  especi- 
ally as  everyone  felt  sure  that  Backfield  would  sooner  or 
later  "  bust  himself  "  in  his  dealings  with  Boarzell. 

After  all,  he  had  only  fifty-six  acres  out  of  a  possible 
three  hundred,  and  had  not  made  much  profit  out  of 
them,  judging  by  the  austerity  of  ways  at  Odiam. 
Horse-rakes  and  steam-threshers  could  not  blind  his 
neighbours  to  the  absence  of  muslin  curtains  and 
butcher's  meat.  "  And  the  way  he's  working  them 
pore  childer,  too  ...  all  of  'em  hard  at  it  from  mornun 
till  evenun,  surelye  .  .  .  enough  to  make  their  mother 
turn  in  her  grave,  pore  girl  .  .  .  not  but  wot  she  hadn't 
every  reason  to  expect  it,  considering  the  way  he  treated 
her,"  etc.  etc. 

At  Flightshot  Manor  comment  was  more  enlightened. 

"  I  can't  understand,  papa,"  said  Anne  Bardon,  "  how 
you  can  go  on  selling  land  to  that  odious  Backfield." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  he  pays  me  good  money  for  it,  and 
I'm  in  precious  need  of  that  just  now." 

"  But  in  time  the  whole  Moor  will  fall  into  his  hands 
— see  if  it  doesn't.  And  he's  a  Tory,  a  reactionary.  It 
would  be  a  dreadful  thing  for  the  parish  if  he  became  a 
big  landowner." 

Anne's  politics  were  the  most  vigorous  in  the  family. 

"  My  dear,  if  anyone  else  would  buy  the  Moor,  I'd  be 
only  too  pleased  to  sell  it  to  them.  But  so  far  there 
hasn't  been  a  nibble.  Backfield's  the  only  man  who  has 
the  temerity  to  think  he  could  make  anything  out  of  a 
desert  like  Boarzell,  and  I  must  say  I  admire  his  pluck." 

"  It's  only  because  he  has  no  imagination.  He's  a 
thick-skinned  brute,  and  I  hate  the  idea  of  a  man  like 
that  becoming  powerful.  Why  don't  you  give  the  land 
back  to  the  parish  ?  Acknowledge  that  grandpapa's 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  125 

inclosure  has  failed,  and  let  the  people  have  their 
common  again." 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,  Anne,"  said  her 
brother  Ralph,  "  you  have  your  godmamma's  fortune, 
and  don't  need  to  think  of  money.  But  papa  and  I  have 
to  think  of  it,  and  after  all  we're  making  a  little,  a  very 
little,  out  of  Boarzell — just  enough  to  keep  up  the  Village 
Institute.  As  time  goes  on,  and  Backfield  gets  richer  and 
more  ambitious,  we  shall  sell  larger  pieces  at  higher  rates, 
and  then  we'll  be  able  to  repair  those  wretched  cottages 
at  Socknersh,  and  do  a  lot  more  besides." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  you  gave  up  the 
Institute  and  let  the  cottages  tumble  down.  It's  no 
good  trying  to  raise  the  people  if  you  leave  a  man  like 
Backfield  loose  among  them." 

"  I  think  you  exaggerate  his  importance,  and  fail  to 
realise  that  of  the  improvements  we  are  making  in 
Peasmarsh.  I  can't  help  thinking,  as  most  of  the  people 
round  here  think,  that  Backfield  will,  as  they  call  it, 
'  bust  himself '  over  the  Moor.  After  all  he's  not 
educated,  and  an  uneducated  man  is  hampered  even  in 
the  least  intellectual  undertakings." 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you,  papa." 

Anne  turned  away  from  her  father  and  brother,  and 
walked  towards  the  window.  She  disliked  arguing,  she 
thought  it  undignified.  She  was  a  tall  woman,  about 
twenty-eight  years  old,  severely  yet  rather  imposingly 
dressed,  with  a  clear  complexion,  grey  eyes,  and  a  nose 
which  was  called  by  her  friends  aquiline,  by  her  enemies 
hooked.  She  despised  the  Squire  in  his  truck  with 
Odiam,  yet  she  was  too  fair-minded  not  to  see  the 
considerations  that  weighed  him.  And  even  she,  as  she 
gazed  from  the  window,  at  the  southward  heap  of 
Boarzell  —  stony,  gorsy,  heather  -  shagged,  and  fir- 
crowned — could  not  withhold  a  certain  admiration 
from  the  man  who  expected  of  his  own  arm  and  tool  to 
subdue  it, 


120  SUSSEX    GORSE 


§4- 

The  Crimean  War  had  meant  the  stoppage  for  a  time 
of  Russian  grain  supplies,  and  Reuben  had  taken  every 
advantage  of  this.  He  had  some  forty  acres  under 
grain  cultivation,  mostly  oats,  but  also  some  good  kinds 
of  wheat  and  barley.  In  rotation  with  these  were 
peas  and  clover,  turnips  and  mangolds.  He  also  had 
twenty  acres  of  hops — the  rest  was  pasture  for  his  neat 
Dutch  and  Jersey  cows,  which,  with  the  orchard  and 
poultry  yard,  were  still  the  most  profitable  if  not  the 
most  glorious  of  his  exploits.  The  bull  had  not  proved 
so  splendid  an  investment  as  he  had  hoped  ;  the  farmers 
of  the  district  could  not  afford  big  hiring  fees,  and  at 
present  his  space  was  too  limited  for  extensive  breeding 
of  his  own  stock.  However,  he  exhibited  Alfriston 
King  at  Lewes  Agricultural  Show,  and  won  a  first  prize 
for  him.  The  next  year  he  sold  him  to  a  big  cattle 
breeder  down  Horeham  way,  and  bought  a  cheaper  but 
more  serviceable  animal  for  his  own  business. 

His  sons  were  now  growing  up — Albert  was  nearly 
eighteen,  and  Peter,  though  a  year  younger,  looked  a 
full-grown  man,  with  his  immense  build  and  dark 
hairy  skin.  Pete  was  still  the  most  satisfactory  of 
Reuben's  children,  he  had  a  huge  and  glad  capacity  for 
work,  and  took  a  real  interest  in  Odiam's  progress, 
though  it  was  not  his  life,  as  it  was  his  father's.  It  was 
strange,  Reuben  thought,  that  none  of  the  other  boys 
seemed  to  have  a  glimmer  of  enthusiasm.  Though  they 
had  grown  up  under  the  shadow  of  Boarzell,  and  from 
their  earliest  childhood  taken  part  in  the  struggle,  they 
seemed  still  to  think  more  about  the  ordinary  things  of 
young  men's  lives  than  the  great  victory  before  them. 
It  was  disappointing.  Of  course  one  expected  it  of 
girls,  but  Reuben's  heart  ached  a  little  because  the  men 
children  on  whom  he  had  set  such  hope  and  store  cared 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  127 

so  little  about  what  was  life  itself  to  him.  It  is  true 
that  Robert  worked  well,  nearly  as  well  as  Pete,  but  that 
was  only  because  he  was  of  a  docile,  tractable  nature. 
He  did  not  share  his  father's  dreams — Boarzell  to  him 
was  only  a  piece  of  waste  ground  with  some  trees  on  it. 

As  for  Albert  and  Richard,  they  did  not  even  work 
well,  and  they  grumbled  and  shirked  as  much  as  they 
dared.  They  had  ambitions,  but  so  utterly  at  variance 
with  Odiam's  as  to  be  worse  than  none.  Albert  wanted 
to  be  a  poet  and  Richard  to  be  a  gentleman. 

What  there  was  in  either  Reuben  or  Naomi  to  make  a 
poet  of  their  eldest  son  would  be  hard  to  say.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  glow  of  their  young  love,  so  golden  and 
romantic  during  the  first  year  of  their  marriage.  If  so, 
there  was  something  of  bitter  irony  in  this  survival 
and  transmutation  of  it.  Odiam  was  no  place  for  poets, 
and  Reuben  tried  by  every  means  in  his  power  to 
knock  the  poetry  out  of  Albert.  It  was  not  the  actual 
poetry  he  objected  to  so  much  as  the  vices  which  went 
with  it  —  f  orgetfulness,  unpracticalness,  negligence. 
Albert  would  sometimes  lose  quite  half  an  hour's  work 
by  falling  into  a  dream,  he  also  played  truant  on  occa- 
sions, and  would  disappear  for  hours,  indeed  now  and 
then  for  a  day  or  more,  wandering  in  the  fields  and 
spinneys,  tasting  the  sharp  sweetness  of  the  dawn  and 
the  earth-flavoured  sleep  of  the  night. 

For  though  he  did  not  care  for  Odiam  he  loved  the 
country  round  it,  and  made  a  wonderland  and  a  dream- 
land of  it.  He  did  not  see  in  Boarzell  Robert's  tree- 
capped  waste,  though  neither  did  he  see  his  father's 
enemy  and  heart's  delight.  He  saw  instead  a  kind  of 
enchanted  ground,  full  of  mysteries  of  sun  and  moon, 
full  of  secrets  that  were  sometimes  beautiful,  sometimes 
terrifying.  It  seemed  to  have  a  soul  and  a  voice,  a  low 
voice,  hoarse  yet  sweet ;  and  its  soul  was  not  the  soul 
of  a  man  or  of  a  beast,  but  the  soul  of  a  fetch,  some 
country  sprite,  that  clumped,  and  yet  could  skip  ...  he 


128  SUSSEX    GORSE 

used  to  feel  it  skipping  with  him  in  the  evening  wind 
when  the  dusk  made  the  heather  misty  round  his  knees 
.  .  .  but  he  knew  that  it  danced  heavy-footed  round  the 
farm  at  night,  clumping,  clumping,  like  a  clod. 

Reuben  had  no  sympathy  with  these  fancies  when 
they  took  his  son  out  of  hard-working  common  sense 
into  idle-handed,  wander-footed  dreams,  or  when 
perhaps  he  found  them  scribbled  on  the  back  of  his 
corn  accounts.  He  did  not  spare  the  rod,  but  Albert 
had  all  the  rather  futile  obstinacy  of  weak-willed  people, 
and  could  be  neither  persuaded  nor  frightened  out  of 
his  dreams. 

However,  though  he  was  a  great  trouble  to  his  father, 
he  was  not  so  irritating  as  Richard.  He  had  the  advan- 
tage that  one  could  lay  hands  on  him  and  vent  one's 
fury  in  blows,  but  Richard  had  an  extraordinary  knack 
of  keeping  just  on  the  safe  side  of  vengeance.  For  one 
thing  he  was  the  best  educated  of  all  Reuben's  children, 
and  the  result  of  education  had  been  not  so  much  to 
fill  his  mind  as  to  sharpen  his  wits  to  a  formidable 
extent.  For  another,  he  loathed  to  be  beaten,  and  used 
all  his  ingenuity  to  avoid  it.  Reuben  could  flog  Albert 
for  going  off  to  the  Moor  when  he  was  told  to  clean  out 
the  pigsties,  but  he  could  not  flog  Richard  for  being 
sick  at  his  first  spadeful.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  did 
actually  perpetrate  this  cruelty  when  Richard's  squeam- 
ishness  caused  him  any  gross  inconvenience,  but  there 
was  no  denying  that  the  boy  was  on  the  whole  successful 
in  avoiding  his  dues. 

Richard  had  been  the  brightest  light  in  the  Misses 
Harmans'  school.  His  teachers  had  often  praised  him, 
and  on  one  occasion  suggested  in  their  ignorance  that  he 
should  take  up  a  more  intellectual  trade  than  farming. 
Then  when  the  Curate-in-Charge  had  inspected  the 
school  he  had  been  struck  by  Richard's  clever,  thoughtful 
answers,  and  had,  for  some  months  after  his  leaving, 
lent  him  books  Reuben  on  discovering  this,  had  gone 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  129 

over  at  once  to  the  parsonage,  and  with  all  the  respect 
due  to  a  Minister  of  the  Established  Church,  had  in- 
formed Mr.  Munk  that  he  didn't  want  no  nonsense  put 
into  his  boy's  head,  and  spades  and  spuds  were  for 
Richard's  hands,  not  books. 

"I'm  going  to  maake  a  farmer  of  un,  your  reverence/' 
"  But  he  says  he  doesn't  want  to  be  a  farmer." 
"  That's  why  I've  got  to  maake  un  one,  surelye." 

§5- 

Reuben  had  sold  Alfriston  King  for  two  hundred 
pounds,  and  this  new  capital  made  possible  another 
enterprise — he  bought  twenty  head  of  sheep.  For  some 
time  he  had  considered  the  advantages  of  keeping  sheep. 
It  was  quite  likely  that  his  new  land  on  Boarzell  would 
be  mostly  pasture,  at  all  events  for  some  time  to  come, 
and  sheep,  properly  managed,  ought  to  be  a  good  source 
of  revenue  as  well  as  a  hall-mark  of  progress.  He  did 
not  want  Odiam  to  be  a  farm  of  one  idea  ;  his  father 
had  kept  it  ambitionlessly  to  grass,  but  Reuben  saw 
grain-growing,  dairy-keeping,  cattle-breeding,  sheep- 
rearing,  hops,  and  fruit,  and  poultry  as  branches  of  its 
greatness. 

He  decided  that  the  sheep  should  be  Richard's  special 
charge — they,  at  all  events,  could  not  make  him  sick  ; 
and  if  he  was  kept  hard  at  work  at  something  definite 
and  important  it  would  clear  his  mind  of  gentility  non- 
sense. Reuben  also  had  rather  a  pathetic  hope  that  it 
might  stir  up  his  ambition. 

Richard  grumbled  of  course,  but  discreetly.  His 
brothers  were  inclined  to  envy  him — Albert  saw  more 
romance  and  freedom  in  keeping  sheep  than  in  digging 
roots  or  cleaning  stables,  Pete  was  jealous  of  an  honour 
the  recipient  did  not  appreciate,  Robert  and  Jemmy 
would  have  liked  a  new  interest  in  their  humdrum  lives. 
Richard  was  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  his  art  by  a 


130  SUSSEX    GORSE 

superannuated  shepherd  from  Doozes,  only  too  glad  of 
a  little  ill-paid  casual  labour. 

None  of  the  Backfield  boys  was  ever  paid  a  penny  of 
wages.  Reuben's  idea  in  employing  them  was  to  save 
money,  besides  he  feared  that  his  young  men  with  full 
pockets  might  grow  independent.  It  was  essential  to 
his  plan  that  he  should  keep  them  absolutely  dependent 
on  him,  otherwise  they  might  leave  home,  marry  without 
his  consent,  or  at  best  fritter  away  their — or  rather  his — 
time  by  running  after  girls  or  drinking  at  pubs.  It  is 
true  that  now  and  then  stalwart  Pete  made  a  few  shillings 
in  the  sparring-booth  at  the  Fair,  but  Reuben  could  trust 
Pete  in  a  way  he  could  not  trust  the  other  boys,  so  he 
did  not  offer  much  objection. 

Pete  had  once  given  a  shilling  to  Richard,  who  had 
bought  with  it  a  second-hand  Latin  grammar,  which  he 
kept  carefully  hidden  under  his  pillow  by  night,  and  in 
his  pocket  by  day.  He  had  an  idea  that  the  mastery  of 
its  obscurities  would  give  him  a  key  to  freedom,  but  he 
had  had  so  far  little  opportunity  of  studying  it,  as  he 
worked  and  slept  with  his  brothers.  Richard  did  not 
extort  the  same  sympathy  for  his  rebellion  as  Albert. 
Albert  had  a  certain  influence  over  Pete  and  Jemmy, 
which  he  maintained  partly  by  a  definite  charm  of 
personality,  partly  by  telling  them  tales  after  they  were 
in  bed  at  night.  They  had  never  betrayed  his  copy  of 
Byron,  also  bought  with  a  shilling  from  Pete,  but 
Richard  dared  not  trust  them  with  his  Lilly.  Some  day 
he  would  manage  to  irritate  them — show  his  contempt 
for  their  bearish  manners,  scoff  at  their  talk,  or  other- 
wise insult  them — and  they  would  deliver  him  over, 
grammar  and  all,  into  his  father's  hands. 

His  new  occupation,  however,  gave  him  undreamed-of 
opportunities.  One  of  the  advantages  of  shepherding  was 
that  it  alternated  periods  of  strenuous  work  with  others 
of  comparative  idleness.  During  these  Richard  would 
pore  over  his  "  hie,  haec,  hoc,"  and  parse  and  analyse  on 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  131 

bits  of  waste  paper.  He  learned  very  quickly,  and  was 
soon  casting  about  for  means  to  buy  a  Greek  grammar. 
He  felt  that  his  father  could  not  possibly  keep  him  at 
the  farm  if  he  knew  both  Latin  and  Greek. 

Thus  Richard  lived  through  the  feasts  and  fasts  of  the 
Shepherd's  Year.  In  spring  there  were  hazy,  drowsy 
days  when  he  sat  with  his  book  under  the  hedge — some 
hole  close  by  where  he  could  stuff  it  if  Reuben  came  that 
way — now  and  then  lifting  an  eye  to  the  timid,  foolish 
faces  buried  in  the  sun-stained  meadow-grass.  Then 
later  came  the  dipping,  the  collie  Havelock  barking  and 
blustering  at  one  end  of  the  bath,  while  old  Comfort 
poked  the  animals  through  it  with  his  crook,  and 
Richard  received  them  terrified  and  evil-smelling  at  the 
other  side.  He  grew  furious  because  his  hands  were  all 
sore  and  blistered  with  the  dip.  Reuben  laughed  at  him 
grossly — "  Yur  granny  shall  maake  you  a  complexion 
wash,  surelye  !  " 

Then  came  the  shearing,  that  queen  of  feasts.  The 
local  band  of  shearers  called  at  Odiam  for  the  first  time, 
and  were  given  an  inaugural  welcome.  Richard  sulked 
at  the  honour  paid  him  as  shepherd — he  felt  it  was 
indeed  a  case  of  King  among  Sweepers.  However,  in 
point  of  fact,  he  enjoyed  the  actual  shearing  well  enough. 
It  was  a  warm  July  day,  the  air  full  of  the  scent  of 
hayseed  ;  the  sheep  came  hustling  and  panting  into  the 
shearing-pens,  and  the  shearers  stripped  them  with 
songs  and  jokes  and  shouts  of  "  Shear  close,  boys !  " 
There  was  also  ale  in  buckets,  brought  out  by  a  girl  hired 
for  the  occasion,  who  was  stout  and  pretty  and  smiled  at 
Richard.  And  it  was  good  to  watch  the  yellowish  piles 
of  fleece  grow  at  one's  knees,  and  comical  to  see  the  poor 
shorn  sheep  stagger  up  from  the  ground,  all  naked  and 
confused,  hardly  knowing  themselves,  it  seemed. 

When  the  shearing  was  done  there  was  supper  in  the 
kitchen  at  Odiam,  with  huge  drinks  of  "  black  ram," 
and  sheep-shearing  songs  such  as  "  Come,  all  my  jolly 


132  SUSSEX    6ORSE 

boys/'  and  "  Here  the  rose-buds  in  June."     Also  the 
Sussex  Whistling  Song : 

"  There  was  an  old  Farmer  in  Sussex  did  dwell, 
And  he  had  a  bad  wife,  as  many  knew  well." 

But  Richard  did  not  enjoy  the  supper  as  much  as  the 
shearing,  for  most  of  the  men  over-ate  themselves,  and 
all  of  them  over-drank.  Also  the  pretty  serving-girl 
forsook  him  for  Albert,  who  on  one  occasion  was 
actually  seen  to  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  hold  it 
there  till  a  scowl  from  his  father  made  him  drop  it. 

Then  in  winter  came  the  lambing,  which  is  the 
shepherd's  Lent.  Richard  and  the  old  man  from 
Doozes  kept  long  vigils  in  the  lambing  hut,  and  those 
nights  and  days  were  to  young  Backfield  dreams  of  red, 
fuggy  solitude,  the  stillness  broken  only  by  the  slip  of 
coals  in  the  brazier,  or  the  faint  bleating  of  the  ewes 
outside — while  sometimes  mad  Harry's  fiddle  wept 
down  the  silences  of  Boarzell. 

Richard  began  to  take  a  new  interest  in  his  flock — 
hitherto  they  had  merely  struck  him  as  grotesque. 
Their  pale  silly  eyes,  their  rough,  tic-ridden  fleeces,  their 
scared  repulsiveness  after  the  dipping,  their  bewildered 
nakedness  after  the  shearing,  had  filled  him  either  with 
amusement  or  disgust ;  but  now,  when  he  saw  them 
weakly  lick  the  backs  of  their  new-born  lambs,  while  the 
lambs'  little  tails  quivered,  and  tiny,  entreating  sounds 
came  from  their  mouths,  he  found  in  them  a  new 
beauty,  which  he  had  found  nowhere  else  in  his  short, 
hard  life — the  beauty  of  an  utterly  loving,  tender,  and 
helpless  thing. 

He  had  his  Lilly  with  him  in  the  hut,  for  there  were 
long  hours  of  idleness  as  well  as  of  anxiety,  but  he  was 
careful  to  hide  away  the  book  if  Reuben  came  to  inspect ; 
for  he  knew  that  his  father  would  have  sat  through  the 
empty  hours  in  concentration  and  expectancy,  his  ears 
straining  for  the  faintest  sound.  He  would  have  thought 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  133 

of  nothing  but  the  ewes,  and  he  looked  to  everyone  to 
think  of  nothing  else.  But  Richard  studied  Latin,  and 
the  old  Doozes  man  put  in  plenty  of  light,  easily  startled 
sleep. 

§6. 

Towards  the  end  of  February  there  was  a  period  of 
intense  cold,  and  some  heavy  falls  of  snow.  Snow  was 
rare  in  that  south-east  corner,  and  all  farm- work  was  to 
a  certain  extent  dislocated.  Reuben  would  have  Hked 
to  spread  blankets  over  his  corn-fields  and  put  shirts  on 
his  cattle.  Adverse  weather  conditions  never  failed  to 
stir  up  his  inborn  combativeness  to  its  fiercest.  His  sons 
trembled  as  his  brain  raged  with  body-racking  plans 
for  fighting  this  new  move  of  nature's.  Richard  was 
glad  to  be  away  from  farmyard  exertions,  most  of  which 
struck  him  as  absurd.  He  was  now  busy  with  the  last 
of  his  lambing,  the  snow  blew  against  the  hut  from  the 
north-east,  piling  itself  till  nothing  was  to  be  seen  from 
that  quarter  but  a  white  lump.  Inside  was  a  crimson 
stuffiness,  as  the  fumes  of  the  brazier  found  their  way 
slowly  out  of  the  little  tin  chimney.  Sometimes  before 
the  brazier  a  motherless  lamb  would  lie. 

There  was  a  lamb  there  on  the  last  evening  j  in 
February,  its  tiny  body  and  long,  weak  legs  all  rosed 
over  with  the  glow.  Above  it  Richard  crouched, 
grammar  in  hand.  There  had  been  a  lull  in  the  snow- 
storm during  the  afternoon,  but  now  once  more  the 
wind  was  piping  and  screaming  over  the  fields  and  the 
whiteness  heaping  itself  against  the  wall. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  before  he 
could  answer,  it  flew  open,  and  the  icy  blast,  laden  with 
snow,  rushed  in,  and  whirled  round  the  hut,  fluttering 
the  pages  of  Lilly's  grammar  and  the  fleece  of  the  lamb. 

"  Shut  that  door !  "  cried  Richard  angfily,  and  then 
realised  that  he  was  speaking  to  a  lady. 

She  had  shut  the  door,  and  stood  against  it,  a  tall, 


134  SUSSEX    GOESE 

rather  commanding  figure,  in  spite  of  her  snow-covered 
garments  and  dishevelled  hair. 

"  Oh — ma'am  !  "  said  Richard,  rising  to  his  feet,  and 
recognising  Miss  Anne  Bardon. 

"  I  trust  I'm  not  in  the  way,"  she  said  rather  coldly, 
"  but  the  storm  is  so  violent,  and  the  drifts  are  forming 
so  fast,  that  I  hope  you  will  not  mind  my  sheltering 
here." 

Richard  was  embarrassed.  Her  fine  words  dis- 
concerted him.  He  had  often  watched  Miss  Bardon 
from  a  respectful  distance,  but  had  never  spoken  to  her 
before. 

"  You're  welcome,  ma'am,"  he  replied  awkwardly, 
and  offered  her  his  chair. 

She  sat  down  and  held  her  feet  to  the  brazier.  He 
noticed  that  her  shoes  were  pulped  with  wet,  and  the 
water  was  pouring  off  her  skirts  to  the  floor.  He  did  not 
dare  speak,  and  she  evidently  did  not  want  to.  He  felt 
the  colour  mounting  to  his  face  ;  he  knew  that  he  was 
dirty  and  unkempt,  for  he  had  been  hours  in  the  hut — 
his  hands  were  grimed  from  the  brazier,  and  he  wore  an 
old  crumpled  slop.  She  probably  despised  him. 

Suddenly  he  noticed  that  the  wet  of  her  garments  was 
dropping  on  the  lamb.  He  hastily  gathered  it  up  in  his 
arms. 

"  What  a  dear  little  creature  !  " 

She  spoke  quite  graciously,  and  Richard  felt  his 
spirits  revive. 

"  His  mother's  dead,  and  I  have  to  be  looking  after 
him,  surelye." 

"  Poor  little  thing  !  " 

She  asked  him  a  few  questions  about  the  lambing, 
then  : 

"  You're  one  of  Mr.  Backfield's  sons,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am.    I'm  Richard." 

"  I've  seen  you  before— in  church,  I  think.  Are  you 
your  father's  shepherd  ?  " 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  135 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Again  I  hope  I  am  not  in  your  way.  I've  been  over 
to  see  the  carter's  widow  at  Socknersh — he  died  two 
days  ago,  you  know,  and  she  hasn't  a  penny  to  go  on 
with.  Then  when  I  saw  the  storm  coming  I  thought  I 
would  take  a  short  cut  home  across  the  fields  ;  I  was 
caught  after  all — and  here  I  am  !  " 

She  smiled  suddenly  as  she  finished  speaking.  It  was 
a  sweet  smile,  rather  aloof,  but  lighting  up  the  whole  of 
her  face  with  a  sudden  flash  of  youth  and  kindness. 
Richard  gazed  at  her,  half  fascinated,  and  mumbled 
lamely — "  you're  welcome,  ma'am." 

She  suddenly  caught  sight  of  his  Latin  grammar. 

"  That's  a  strange  thing  to  see  in  a  shepherd's  hand." 

He  felt  encouraged,  for  he  had  wanted  her  to  see  the 
difference  between  him  and  an  ordinary  shepherd,  but 
had  been  too  awkward  to  show  her. 

"  I've  had  it  three  months — I  can  construe  a  bit  of 
Horace  now." 

"  Acquam  memento  rebus  in  arduis  servare  mentem," 
said  Anne. 

"  Omnes  eodem  cogimen,"  said  Richard,  and  blushed. 

There  was  silence,  but  not  of  the  former  discouraging 
sort.  Richard  was  even  bold  enough  to  break  it : 

"  I  never  knew  ladies  cud  speak  Latin." 

"  Some  can.  I  was  educated  with  my  brother,  you 
know,  and  when  we  construed  Horace  I  was  always 
five  or  six  pages  ahead.  What  made  you  want  to  learn 
Latin  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  git  out  o'  this." 

"  Out  of  your  farm  duties,  you  mean  ?  " 

"Yes."   " 

"  But  surely  your  father  would  let  you  adopt  some 
other  profession  if  he  knew  you  did  not  like  this  one  ?  " 

Richard  shook  his  head. 

"  He  wants  justabout  all  of  us — we've  got  to  push  on 
the  farm." 


136  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Yes — I  know  he  is  ambitious,  but  surely  he  doesn't 
want  unwilling  helpers. " 

"  Oh,  he  doan't  mind  who  it  is,  so  long  as  the  work's 
done." 

"  And  don't  you  care  about  the  farm  ?  " 

"  I,  ma'am  ? — no.    I  want  to  be  a  gentleman." 

Anne  was  growing  interested.  This  farm  boy  was 
gloriously  unlike  others  of  his  kind  that  she  had  met. 

"  And  you  think  that  if  you  learn  Latin,  it'll  help  you 
be  a  gentleman  someday  ?  " 

"  Yes — and  Greek,  when  I've  adone  wud  the  Latin." 

"  Have  you  many  books  ?  " 

"  No — only  this  one." 

"  Then  I  must  lend  you  some  books." 

Richard  flushed  with  pleasure.  After  all  he  was  not 
acquitting  himself  so  badly  with  this  fine  lady.  They 
talked  together  for  a  few  more  minutes,  the  boy  trying 
to  clip  his  speech  like  hers.  He  noticed  how  much 
shorter  and  crisper  it  was  than  his — while  he  said 
"  doan't,"  she  could  say  "  don't  "  twice. 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  Doozes 
shepherd,  accompanied  by  a  swirl  of  flakeless  wind.  The 
old  man  was  astonished  and  rather  scandalised  to  find 
Anne  Bardon.  She  looked  positively  rakish  sitting 
there  in  her  steaming  clothes,  her  hat  over  one  ear,  her 
hair  in  wisps,  and  her  face  more  animated  and  girlish 
than  any  of  his  kind  had  ever  seen  it. 

Old  Comfort  scraped  and  mumbled,  and  fussed  over 
the  lamb,  which  the  two  Latinists  had  entirely  forgotten. 
Then  Richard,  seeing  himself  free  and  the  sky  clear, 
offered  to  help  her  through  the  drifts  to  Flightshot.  She 
let  him  accompany  her  as  far  as  the  edge  of  the  Manor 
estate,  where  the  going  was  no  longer  dangerous. 

u  Your  servant,  ma'am,"  he  said,  as  he  opened  the 
gate  ;  and  she  answered  classically  : 

"  Vale  !  " 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  137 


§7- 

On  the  whole,  the  most  unsatisfactory  of  Reuben 's 
sons  was  Albert.  Richard  might  be  more  irritating,  but 
Albert  had  that  knack  of  public  sinning  which  gives  a 
certain  spectacular  offensiveness  to  the  most  trivial 
faults.  Any  trouble  between  Reuben  and  his  eldest  son 
invariably  spread  itself  into  the  gossip  of  ten  farms  ;  the 
covert  misdoings  of  and  private  reckonings  with  the 
other  boys  gave  place  to  tempestuous  scandals,  windy 
stormings,  in  which  Albert  contrived  to  grab  the  general 
sympathy,  and  give  a  decorative  impression  of  martyr- 
dom. 

At  the  same  time  he  tantalised  Reuben  with  vague 
hints  of  enthusiasm,  sometimes  almost  making  him 
think  that,  undependable  and  careless  as  he  was,  he  had 
in  him  certain  germs  of  understanding.  But  these  were 
mere  promises  that  were  never  fulfilled.  Albert  would 
whet  Reuben's  hopes  by  asking  him  questions  about  the 
country  round  :  Why  was  such  and  such  a  farm  called 
Stilliand's  Tower  or  Puddingcake  ?  Why  were  there 
about  six  places  called  Iden  Green  within  a  square  of 
twenty  miles  ?  Was  there  any  story  to  account  for  the 
names  of  Mockbeggar,  Golden  Compasses,  Castweasel, 
or  Gablehook  ?  But  directly  Reuben  digressed  from 
these  general  questions  to  the  holy  particulars  of  Odiam 
and  Boarzell,  he  would  lose  his  interest  and  at  last  even 
his  attention,  escaping  into  some  far-wandering  dream. 

Reuben  could  not  understand  how  his  sons  could  care 
so  little  about  that  which  was  all  things  to  him.  He  had 
brought  them  up  to  his  ambitions — they  were  not  like 
Naomi,  thrust  into  them  in  later,  less-impressionable 
years.  He  had  not  been  weak  with  them,  and  not  been 
cruel — yet  only  Pete  was  at  all  satisfactory.  However, 
he  was  not  the  man  to  sit  down  and  despair  before  his 
obstacles.  He  made  the  best  of  things  as  they  were — 


138  SUSSEX    GORSE 

ground  work  out  of  his  lads,  since  he  could  not  grind 
enthusiasm,  and  trusted  to  the  future  to  stir  up  a  greater 
hope.  He  somehow  could  not  believe  that  his  boys 
could  go  through  all  their  lives  not  caring  for  Odiam. 

Albert  continued  weakly  and  picturesquely  to  offend. 
He  was  now  nearly  twenty-one,  and  had  begun  to  run 
after  girls  in  a  stupid  way.  Reuben,  remembering  how 
sternly  he  had  deprived  himself  of  pleasures  of  this  kind, 
ruthlessly  spoiled  his  son's  philanderings  .  .  .  but  the 
crime  he  could  not  forgive,  which  set  the  keystone  on  his 
and  the  boy's  antagonism,  was  the  publication  of  some 
verses  by  Albert  in  the  Rye  Advertiser. 

To  begin  with,  it  was  a  Liberal  paper,  and  though  the 
verses  were  of  a  strictly  non-political  kind,  dealing 
chiefly  with  Amelia's  eyes,  it  seemed  to  Reuben  shock- 
ingly unprincipled  to  defile  oneself  in  any  way  with 
Radical  print.  But  even  without  that  the  thing  was 
criminal  and  offensive. 

"  I  woan't  have  no  hemmed  poetry  in  my  family !  " 
stormed  Reuben,  for  Albert  had  as  usual  stage-managed 
a  "  scene."  "  You've  got  your  work  to  do,  and  you'll 
just  about  do  it." 

"  But  faather,  it  didn't  taake  up  any  of  my  time, 
writing  that  poem,  I  wrote  it  at  my  breakfast  one 
mornun  two  months  ago " 

"  Yes,  that's  it — instead  of  spending  twenty  minnut 
at  your  breakfast,  you  spend  forty.  You  idle  away  my 
time  wud  your  hemmed  tricks,  and  I  woan't  have  it,  I 
tell  you,  I  woan't  have  it.  Lord  !  when  I  wur  your  age, 
I  wur  running  the  whole  of  this  farm  alone — every 
stroak  of  work,  I  did  it.  I  didn't  go  wasting  time  over 
my  meals,  and  writing  rubbidge  fur  low-down  Gladstone 
paapers.  Now  doan't  you  go  sassing  me  back,  you 
young  good-fur-nothing,  or  111  flay  you,  surelye  !  " 

Albert  could  not  help  a  grudging  admiration  of  his 
father.  Reuben  could  be  angry  and  fling  threats,  and 
yet  keep  at  the  same  time  a  certain  splendour,  which  no 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  139 

violence  or  vulgarity  could  dim.  The  boy,  in  spite  of 
his  verses,  which  were  execrable  enough,  had  a  poet's  eye 
for  the  splendid,  and  he  could  not  be  blind  to  the 
qualities  of  his  father's  tyranny,  even  though  that 
tyranny  crushed  him  at  times.  Reuben  was  now  forty- 
three  ;  a  trifle  heavier  in  build,  perhaps,  but  otherwise 
as  fine  and  straight  a  man  as  he  had  been  at  twenty. 
His  clear  brown  skin,  ke^n  eyes,  thick  coal-black  hair, 
his  height,  his  strength,  his  dauntless  spirit,  could  not 
fail  to  impress  one  in  whom  the  sense  of  life  and  beauty 
was  developing.  Albert  even  once  began  a  poem  to 
his  father  : 

"  You  march  across  the  mangold  field, 
And  all  our  limbs  do  shake.  ..." 

But  somehow  found  the  subject  more  difficult  to 
grapple  than  the  fascinations  of  Amelia. 

With  Richard  things  were  different.  He  despised 
Reuben  as  bestial,  and  sometimes  jeopardised  his  skin 
by  nearly  showing  his  contempt.  He  now  had  a 
peculiar  friendship  with  Anne  Bardon.  They  had  met 
accidentally  a  second  time,  and  deliberately  half  a 
dozen  more.  In  Richard  Anne  had  made  a  discovery — 
he  appealed  to  her  imagination,  which  ran  on  severe 
lines.  She  sympathised  with  his  ambition  to  break  free 
from  the  grind  and  grossness  of  Odiam,  and  resolved  to 
help  him  as  much  as  she  could.  She  lent  him  books,  and 
guided  him  with  her  superior  knowledge  and  education. 

Their  meetings  were  secret,  from  her  family  as  well  as 
his.  But  they  were  dignified — there  was  no  scurrying 
like  rabbits.  Richard's  work  kept  him  mostly  on  the 
Flightshot  borders  of  Odiam,  and  often  the  grave  Anne 
would  walk  down  to  the  hedge,  and  help  him  construe 
Tacitus  or  parse  from  Ovid.  There  was  an  old  tree  by 
the  boundary  fence,  in  the  hollow  of  which  she  put  new 
books  for  him  to  find,  and  into  which  he  would  return 
those  he  had  finished.  She  was  very  careful  to  maintain 


140  SUSSEX    GORSE 

the  right  attitude  towards  him  ;  he  was  always  her 
humble  servant,  he  never  forgot  to  call  her  "  ma'am." 

But  the  disciple  of  Anne  Bar  don  could  aspire  to  be 
master  among  other  men.  Richard  began  to  startle  and 
amuse  his  family  by  strange  new  ways.  He  took  to 
washing  his  neck  every  morning,  and  neatly  combed  his 
hair.  He  cut  up  an  old  shirt  into  pocket-handkerchiefs. 
He  began  to  model  his  speech  on  Miss  Bardon's — 
clipping  it,  and  purging  it  ridiculously.  Reuben  would 
roar  with  laughter. 

"  '  Pray  am  I  to  remove  this  dirt  ?  ' — Did  you  ever 
hear  such  praaperness  and  denticalness  ? — all  short  and 
soft  lik  the  Squire  himself.  You  wash  out  all  that 
mucky  sharn,  my  lad,  if  that's  wot  you  mean." 

§8. 

Robert  Backfield  was  a  member  of  Peasmarsh  choir. 
He  had  a  good,  ringing  bass  voice,  which  had  attracted 
the  clerk's  notice,  and  though  Reuben  disapproved  of 
his  son's  having  any  interests  outside  Odiam,  he 
realised  that  as  a  good  Tory  he  ought  to  support  the 
Church — especially  as  the  hours  of  the  practices  did  not 
clash  with  Robert's  more  important  engagements. 

Peasmarsh  choir  consisted  of  about  eighteen  boys  and 
girls,  with  an  accompaniment  of  cornets,  flutes,  and  a 
bass  viol — the  last  played  by  an  immensely  aged  drover 
from  Coldblow,  who,  having  only  three  fingers  on  his 
left  hand,  had  to  compromise,  not  always  tunefully, 
with  the  score.  The  singing  was  erratic.  Eighteen 
fresh  young  voices  could  not  fail  to  give  a  certain 
pleasure,  but  various  members  had  idiosyncrasies  which 
did  not  make  for  the  common  weal — such  as  young 
Ditch,  who  never  knew  till  he  had  begun  to  sing 
whether  his  voice  would  be  bass  or  alto,  all  intermediary 
pitches  being  somehow  unattainable — or  Rosie  Hubble 
from  Barline,  who  was  always  four  bars  behind  the  rest 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  141 

even  young  Robert  himself,  who  in  crises  of 
enthusiasm  was  wont  to  sing  so  loud  that  his  voice 
drowned  everyone  else's,  or  in  a  wild  game  of  follow- 
my-leader  led  the  whole  anthem  to  destruction. 

Robert  loved  these  choir  practices  and  church  sing- 
ings. Though  he  never  complained  of  his  hard  work,  he 
was  unconsciously  glad  of  a  change  from  the  materialism 
of  Odiam.  The  psalms  with  their  out  breathings  of  a 
clearer  life  did  much  to  purge  even  his  uncultured  soul 
of  its  muddlings,  the  hymns  with  their  sentimental  far- 
awayness  opened  views  into  which  he  would  gaze 
enchanted  as  into  a  promised  land.  He  would  come  in 
tired  and  throbbing  from  the  fields,  scrape  as  much  mud 
as  possible  off  his  boots,  put  on  his  Sunday  coat,  and 
tramp  through  the  dusk  to  the  clerk's  house  .  .  .  the 
little  golden  window  gleaming  to  him  across  Peasmarsh 
street  and  pond  was  the  foretaste  of  the  evening's  sweet- 
ness. 

The  practices  were  held  in  the  clerk's  kitchen,  into 
which  the  choristers  would  crush  and  huddle.  On  full 
attendance  nights  all  elbows  touched,  and  occasionally 
old  Spodgram's  bow  would  be  jolted  out  of  his  hand,  or 
someone  would  complain  that  Leacher  was  blowing  his 
trumpet  down  his  neck.  Afterwards  the  choristers  would 
wander  home  in  clusters  through  the  fields  ;  the  clusters 
generally  split  into  small  groups,  and  then  the  groups 
into  couples.  The  couples  would  scatter  widely,  and 
vex  their  homes  with  late  returnings. 

Robert  was  first  of  all  part  of  a  cluster  which  included 
young  Coalbran  from  Doozes,  Tom  Sheane  from  Dingles- 
den,  the  two  Morfees  from  Edzell,  Emily  Ditch,  and 
Bessie  Lamb  from  Eggs  Hole.  Then  in  time  the 
company  reduced  itself  to  Robert,  Emily,  and  Bessie — 
and  one  wonderful  night  he  found  himself  with  Bessie 
alone.  How  they  had  chosen  each  other  he  could  not 
say.  All  he  knew  was  that  for  some  time  she  had 
become  woven  with  the  music  into  his  thoughts.  She 


142  SUSSEX    GORSE 

was  a  poor  labourer's  daughter,  living  in  a  crumbled, 
rickety  cottage  on  Eggs  Hole  Farm,  helping  her  mother 
look  after  eight  young  children.  She  was  only  seventeen 
herself,  sturdy  yet  soft,  with  a  mass  of  hay-coloured 
hair,  and  rather  a  broad  face  with  wistful  eyes.  Robert 
thought  she  was  beautiful — but  Robert  thought  that  old 
Spodgram's  playing  and  the  choir's  singing  were 
beautiful. 

Though  they  were  technically  a  Couple,  they  never 
spoke  of  love.  They  never  even  kissed  or  held  each 
other's  hands,  however  tenderly  the  velvet  darkness 
called.  He  told  her  about  his  work  at  Odiam — about  the 
little  calf  that  was  born  that  day,  or  the  trouble  he  had 
had,  patching  the  rent  in  the  pigsty,  or  how  the 
poultry  had  not  taken  well  to  their  new  food,  but  pre- 
ferred something  with  more  sharps  in  it.  She  in  her 
turn  would  tell  him  how  she  had  washed  little  Georgie's 
shirt — taking  advantage  of  a  warm  day  when  he  could 
run  about  naked — how  her  mother  had  lamentable  hard 
pains  all  down  her  back,  how  her  father  had  got  drunk 
at  the  harvest  supper  and  tried  to  beat  her. 

Sometimes  they  looked  in  the  hedges  for  birds'  nests, 
or  watched  the  rabbits  skipping  in  the  dusk.  They 
would  gape  up  at  the  stars  together  and  call  the  con- 
stellations by  names  of  their  own — Orion  was  "  the  gurt 
tree,"  and  Cassiopeia  was  "  the  sheep  trough,"  and 
Pegasus  was  "  the  square  meadow." 

It  was  all  very  wonderful  and  sweet  to  Robert,  and 
when  at  last  he  crept  under  the  sheets  in  the  apple- 
smelling  garret  he  would  dream  of  him  and  Bessie 
wandering  in  the  Peasmarsh  fields — or  sometimes  in 
those  starry  meadows  where  the  hedges  shone  and 
twinkled  with  the  fruit  of  constellations,  and  Charles 
drove  his  waggon  along  a  golden  road,  and  sheep  ate 
from  a  flickering  trough  under  a  great  tree  of  lamps. 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  143 


§9- 

Bessie  tinted  the  world  for  Robert  like  a  sunrise.  All 
through  the  day  he  carried  memories  of  lightless  woods, 
of  fields  hushed  in  the  swale,  of  the  smudge  of  her  old 
purple  cotton  beside  him — of,  perhaps,  some  dim  divine 
moment  when  his  hand  had  touched  hers  hanging  at 
her  side. 

Then  winter  came,  with  carol-singing,  and  the 
choristers  tramped  round,  lantern-led,  from  farm  to 
farm.  There  in  the  fluttering  light  outside  Kitchenhour, 
Old  Turk,  Ellenwhorne,  or  Edzell,  Robert  would  watch 
Bessie's  chicory-flower  eyes  under  her  hood,  while  the 
steam  of  their  breath  mingled  in  the  frosty  air,  and  they 
drooped  their  heads  together,  singing  to  each  other, 
only  to  each  other,  "  Good  King  Wenceslas,"  "  As 
Joseph  was  a-walking,"  or  "In  the  Fields  with  their 
Flocks." 

As  they  were  both  simple  souls,  their  love  only  made 
the  words  more  real.  Sometimes  it  seemed  almost  as  if 
they  could  see  up  in  the  white  glistering  field  behind  the 
barn,  the  manger  with  the  baby  in  it,  the  mother  watch- 
ing near,  and  the  ox  and  the  ass  standing  meekly  beside 
them  in  the  straw.  Bessie  said  she  felt  sure  that  the 
shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night  in  the  little  old 
meadow  at  the  corner  of  Totease  .  .  .  she  once  thought 
she  had  heard  them  singing.  But  she  would  not  go  and 
look. 

As  the  year  climbed  up  again  into  spring,  a  tender 
pity  for  Bessie  mingled  with  Robert's  love.  It  was  not 
the  pity  which  begets  love,  but  the  sweeter  kind  which 
is  begotten  of  it.  Robert  forgot  all  about  his  own  hard 
life,  the  monotonous  ruthless  grind  of  work,  the  absence 
of  all  softness,  homeliness,  or  sympathy,  the  denial  of 
all  gaiety  and  sport.  He  thought  only  of  Bessie's 
troubles,  and  would  have  given  the  world  to  lighten 


144  SUSSEX    GORSE 

them.  He  longed  to  give  her  some  little  treat,  or  a 
present.  But  he  had  no  money.  For  the  first  time  he 
inwardly  rebelled  against  the  system  which  kept  him 
penniless.  None  of  the  boys  had  any  money,  except 
Pete  on  Fair  days  —  not  even  Albert,  for  the  Rye 
Advertiser  did  not  pay  its  poets.  For  the  first  time 
Robert  saw  this  as  unjust. 

March  blew  some  warm  twilights  to  Peasmarsh,  and 
the  choristers  began  their  summer  lingering.  Bessie 
and  Robert  often  took  the  longer  way  home  by  Ellen- 
whorne — he  would  not  leave  her  now  till  they  were  at 
her  cottage  door,  and  often  he  would  run  home  hare- 
footed  from  Eggs  Hole,  afraid  that  he  might  be  shut 
out  of  Odiam,  and  perhaps  his  precious  comradeship 
discovered  and  put  under  the  tyrant's  ban. 

Then  came  an  evening  in  April,  when  the  air  smelled 
of  primroses  and  young  leaves.  The  choir  practice  was 
early,  and  rifts  of  sunshine  sloped  up  the  clerk's  kitchen, 
linking  in  one  golden  slant  Robert's  dark  healthy  face 
just  under  the  ceiling,  Bessie's  shoulders  pressed  against 
his  arm,  the  frail  old  hands  of  Joe  Hearsfield  on  his 
flute,  and  the  warm  plum-brown  of  the  bass  viol  close 
to  the  floor.  To  Robert  it  was  all  a  dream  of  holiness 
and  harmony.  Old  Spodgram  confined  himself  almost 
entirely  to  two  notes,  Miss  Hubble  insisted  on  her  four 
bars  of  arrears,  young  Ditch  extemporised  an  alto  of 
surprising  reediness,  and  Robert  bellowed  the  last  lines 
of  the  last  verse  just  as  the  other  choristers  were  loudly 
taking  in  breath  preparatory  to  line  three — but  the 
whole  thing  was  to  him  a  foretaste  of  Paradise  and  the 
angels  singing  ever  world  without  end. 

When  the  practice  was  over  it  was  still  light,  and 
Robert  and  Bessie  turned  inevitably  along  the  little 
bostal  that  trickles  through  the  fields  towards  Ramstile. 
As  usual  they  did  not  speak,  but  in  each  glowed  the 
thought  that  they  had  a  full  two  hours  to  live  through 
together  in  the  mystery  of  these  sorrowless  fields. 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  145 

The  sun  set  as  they  came  to  Ellen whorne.  They 
stood  and  watched  it  dip  behind  the  little  cluster  of  roofs 
and  oast-houses  in  the  west.  The  turrets  of  the  oasts 
stood  out  black  against  the  crimson,  then  suddenly 
they  purpled,  faded  into  their  background  of  night- 
washed  cloud. 

The  fields  were  very  dark  in  their  low  corners,  only 
their  high  sweeps  shimmered  in  the  ghostly  lemon  glow. 
Out  of  the  rabbit-warrens  along  the  hedges,  from  the 
rims  of  the  woods,  ran  the  rabbits  to  scuttle  and  play. 
Bessie  and  Robert  saw  the  bob  of  their  white  tails  through 
the  dusk,  and  now  and  then  a  little  long-eared  shape. 

The  boy  and  girl  were  still  silent.  But  in  the  con- 
sciousness each  had  of  the  other,  kindled  and  spread  a 
strange  dear  poignancy.  They  walked  side  by  side 
through  the  dusk,  now  faintly  cold.  Dew  began  to 
tremble  and  shine  on  the  grass,  to  pearl  the  brambles 
and  glimmer  on  the  twigs. 

Robert  looked  sideways  at  Bessie.  She  was  colour- 
less in  the  dark,  or  rather  coloured  all  over  with  the 
same  soft  grey,  which  gathered  up  into  itself  the  purple 
of  her  gown  and  the  pale  web  of  her  hair.  In  her  eyes 
was  a  quiver  of  starlight. 

Their  feet  splashed  on  the  soaking  grass,  and  suddenly 
Bessie  stopped  and  lifted  her  shoe  : 

"  It's  justabout  wet,  Robby." 

He  looked. 

"  So  it  be — I  shudn't  have  brought  you  through  all 
this  damp  grass.  We  shud  have  gone  by  the  lane,  I 
reckon. " 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  breathed,  and  her  voice  and  the  half- 
seen  glimmer  of  her  eyes  troubled  him  strangely. 

"  Lookee,  I'll  carry  you — you  mustn't  git  wet." 

She  opened  her  lips  to  protest,  but  the  sound  died  on 
them,  for  he  stooped  and  swept  her  up  in  his  arms.  She 
slipped  her  hand  to  his  neck  to  steady  herself,  and  they 
went  forward  again  towards  the  south. 


146  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Bessie  was  a  sturdily  built  little  person,  but  the  weight 
of  her  was  a  rich  delight,  and  if  his  arms  strained,  they 
strained  with  tenderness  as  well  as  with  effort.  Under 
them  her  frock  crushed  and  gave  out  a  fragrance  of 
crumpled  cotton,  her  hand  was  warm  against  his  neck, 
and  on  his  cheek  tickled  her  soft  hair.  The  shadows 
ran  towards  them  from  the  corners  of  the  field,  slipping 
like  ghosts  over  the  grass,  and  one  or  two  pale  stars 
kindled  before  them,  where  the  sky  dropped  into  the 
woods.  .  .  .  An  owl  lifted  his  note  of  sadness,  which 
wandered  away  over  the  fields  to  Ellen whorne.  .  .  . 

Her  young  face  bowed  to  his  neck,  and  suddenly  his 
lips  crept  round  and  lay  against  the  coolness  of  her 
cheek.  She  did  not  move,  and  he  still  walked  on,  the 
grass  splashing  under  his  feet,  the  rabbits  scampering 
round  him,  showing  their  little  cotton-tails  in  the  dark. 

Then  his  mouth  stole  downwards  and  groped  for  hers. 
Their  lips  fluttered  together  like  moths.  Then  suddenly 
she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  strained  his  head 
to  her,  and  kissed  him  and  kissed  him,  with  queer  little 
sobs  in  her  throat.  .  .  . 

He  still  walked  on  through  the  deepening  night  and 
skipping  rabbits.  He  never  paused,  just  carried  her  and 
kissed  her  ;  and  she  kissed  him,  stroking  his  face  with 
her  hands — and  all  without  a  word. 

At  last  they  reached  the  lane  by  Eggs  Hole  Cottage, 
which  with  shimmering  star- washed  front  looked  towards 
the  south.  He  stopped,  and  she  slid  to  the  ground. 
Then  suddenly  the  words  came. 

"  Oh,  my  liddle  thing  !  My  dear  liddle  thing  . . .  my 
sweet  liddle  thing  !  " 

"  Robby,  Robby " 

They  kissed  each  other  again  and  again,  eagerly  like 
children,  but  with  the  tears  of  men  and  women  in  their 
eyes. 

"  Robby  ...  I  love  you  ...  I  love  you  so  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  liddle  thing  !  " 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  147 

They  were  hungry  .  .  .  their  arms  wound  about  each 
other  and  their  faces  pressed  close,  now  cheek  to  cheek, 
now  with  lips  fluttering  together  in  those  sweet  kisses 
of  youth  which  have  so  much  of  shyness  in  their  passion. 

Suddenly  a  light  kindled  in  the  little  house.  Bessie 
slipped  from  him,  and  ran  up  the  pathway  into  the  dark 
gape  of  the  door. 

§10. 

In  August  Reuben  bought  ten  more  acres  of  Boarzell, 
and  the  yoke  tightened  on  Odiam.  All  had  now  been 
pressed  into  service,  even  the  epileptic  George.  From 
morning  till  night  feet  tramped,  hoofs  stamped,  wheels 
rolled,  backs  bent,  arms  swung.  Reuben  himself 
worked  hardest  of  all,  for  to  his  actual  labour  must  be 
added  long  tramps  from  one  part  of  the  farm  to  the  other 
to  superintend  his  sons'  work.  Besides,  he  would  allow 
nothing  really  important  to  be  undertaken  without  him. 
He  must  be  present  when  the  first  scythe  swept  into  the 
hay,  when  his  wonderful  horse-reaper  took  its  first  step 
along  the  side  of  the  cornfield,  he  must  himself  see  to  the 
spreading  of  the  hops  over  the  drying  furnaces  in  the 
oasts,  or  rise  in  the  cold  twinkling  hour  after  midnight 
to  find  out  how  Buttercup  was  doing  with  her  calf. 

Pete  made  an  able  and  keen  lieutenant,  but  the  other 
boys  were  still  disappointing.  It  is  true  that  Benjamin 
worked  well  and  was  often  smart  enough,  but  he  had  a 
roving  disposition,  which  was  more  dangerous  than 
Albert's,  since  it  led  him  invariably  down  to  the  muddy 
Rother  banks  at  Rye,  where  the  great  ships  stood  in 
the  water,  filling  the  air  with  good  smells  of  fish  and 
tar.  Jemmy  would  loaf  for  hours  round  the  capstans 
and  building-stocks,  and  the  piles  of  muddy  rope  that 
smelled  of  ooze,  and  he  would  talk  to  the  sailormen  and 
fishermen  about  voyages  to  the  Azores  and  the  Cape 
or  to  the  wild  seas  south  of  the  Horn,  and  would  come 
home  prating  of  sails  and  smoke-stacks,  charts  and  logs, 


148  SUSSEX    GORSE 

and  other  vain  things  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Odiam.  Reuben  remembered  that  the  boy's  mother 
came  of  a  family  of  ship-builders  and  sailormen,  and  he 
would  tremble  for  Jemmy's  allegiance,  and  punish  his 
truancies  twice  as  severely  as  Albert's. 

Another  trial  to  him  now  was  that  Robert  seemed 
half-hearted.  Hitherto  he  had  always  worked  con- 
scientiously and  well,  even  though  he  had  never  been 
smart  or  particularly  keen  ;  but  now  he  seemed  to  loaf 
and  slack — he  dawdled,  slipped  clear  of  what  he  could, 
and  once  he  actually  asked  Reuben  for  wages  !  This 
was  unheard-of — not  one  of  Reuben's  sons  had  ever 
dreamed  of  such  a  thing  before. 

"  Wages  ! — wot  are  you  wanting  wages  fur,  young 
raascal  ?  You're  working  to  save  money,  not  to  earn 
it.  You  wait  till  all  yon  Moor  is  mine,  and  Odiam 's 
the  biggest  farm  in  Sussex,  before  you  ask  fur  wages.'' 

Up  till  then  Robert  had  never  troubled  much  about 
money.  He  did  not  want  to  buy  books  like  Albert  and 

ichard,  neither  did  he  care  for  drinking  in  Rye  pubs 
with  fishermen  like  Jemmy.  But  now  everything  was 
changed.  He  wanted  money  for  Bessie.  He  wanted 
to  marry  her,  and  he  must  have  money  for  that,  no 
matter  how  meanly  they  started  ;  and  also  he  wanted 
to  give  her  treats  and  presents,  to  cheer  the  dullness  of 
her  life.  Reuben  had  indeed  been  wise  in  trying  to  keep 
the  girls  away  from  his  sons  ! 

There  are  no  two  such  things  for  sharpening  human 
wits  as  fullness  of  love  and  shortness  of  cash.  Robert's 
brain  was  essentially  placid  and  lumbering,  but  under 
this  double  spur  it  began  to  work  wonders.  After  much 
pondering  he  thought  of  a  plan.  It  was  part  of  his 
duties  to  snare  rabbits  on  Boarzell.  Every  evening  he 
went  round  and  inspected  the  traps,  killed  any  little 
squealing  prisoners  that  were  in  them,  and  sold  them 
on  market  days  at  Rye.  It  was  after  all  an  easy  thing 
to  report  and  hand  over  the  money  for  ten  rabbits  a 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  149 

week,  while  keeping  the  price  of,  say,  three  more,  and 
any  other  man  would  have  thought  of  it  sooner. 

In  this  way  he  managed  to  do  a  few  little  things  to 
brighten  Bessie's  grey  life — and  his  own  too,  though  he 
did  not  know  it  was  grey.  Every  week  he  put  aside  a 
shilling  or  two  towards  the  lump  sum  which  was  at 
last  to  make  their  marriage  possible.  It  was  Reuben's 
fight  for  Boarzell  on  an  insignificant  scale — though 
Robert,  who  had  not  so  much  iron  in  him  as  his  father, 
could  not  resist  spending  money  from  time  to  time  on 
unnecessary  trifles  that  would  give  Bessie  happiness. 
For  one  thing  he  discovered  that  she  had  never  been  to 
the  Fair.  She  had  never  known  the  delights  of  riding 
on  the  merry-go-round,  throwing  balls  at  Aunt  Sally, 
watching  the  shooting  or  the  panorama.  Robert 
resolved  to  take  her  that  autumn,  and  bought  her  a 
pair  of  white  cotton  gloves  in  preparation  for  the  day. 

Unluckily,  however,  he  was  not  made  for  a  career  of 
prolonged  fraud,  and  he  ingloriously  foundered  in  that 
sea  of  practical  details  through  which  the  cunning  man 
must  steer  his  schemes.  He  fixed  the  number  of  rabbits 
to  be  sold  at  Rye  as  ten  a  week,  pocketing  the  surplus 
whether  it  were  one  or  six.  This  was  a  pretty  fair 
average,  but  its  invariable  occurrence  for  seven  or 
eight  weeks  could  not  fail  to  strike  Reuben,  whose 
brain  was  not  placid  and  slow-moving  like  his  son's. 

The  one  thing  against  the  idea  *fchat  Robert  was 
swindling  him  was  that  he  thought  Robert  utterly 
incapable  of  so  much  contrivance.  However,  he  had 
noticed  several  changes  in  the  boy  of  late,  and  he  re- 
solved to  wait  another  two  weeks,  keeping  his  eyes  open 
and  his  tongue  still.  Each  week  ten  rabbits  were  re- 
ported sold  at  Rye  and  the  money  handed  over  to  him. 
On  the  morning  of  the  next  market  day,  when  Robert's 
cart,  piled  with  eggs,  fruit,  vegetables,  and  poultry,  was 
at  the  door,  Reuben  came  out  and  inspected  it. 

"  Let's  see  your  conies,"  he  said  briefly. 


150  SUSSEX    GORSE 

It  was  as  if  someone  had  suddenly  laid  a  cold  hand  on 
Robert's  heart.  He  guessed  that  his  father  suspected 
him.  His  ears  turned  crimson,  and  his  hands  trembled 
and  fumbled  as  he  opened  the  back  of  the  cart  and  took 
out  his  string  of  properly  skinned  and  gutted  conies. 

Reuben  counted  them — ten.  Then  he  pushed  them 
aside,  and  began  rummaging  in  the  cart  among  cabbages 
and  bags  of  apples.  In  a  second  or  two  he  had  dragged 
out  five  more  rabbits.  Robert  stood  with  hanging  head, 
flushed  cheeks,  and  quivering  hands,  till  his  father  ful- 
filled his  expectations  by  knocking  him  down. 

"  So  that's  the  way  you  queer  me,  you  young  villain. 
You  steal,  you  hide,  you  try  to  bust  the  farm.  It's  luck 
you're  even  a  bigger  fool  than  you  are  scamp,  and  I've 
caught  you  justabout  purty." 

He  kicked  Robert,  and  called  up  Richard  to  drive 
the  cart  over  to  Rye. 

An  hour  later  the  whole  of  the  boy's  plans,  and  worse 
still  his  sinews  of  war,  were  in  the  enemy's  possession. 
Reuben  ransacked  his  son's  mind  as  easily  as  he  ran- 
sacked his  pockets  and  the  careful  obvious  little  hiding- 
place  under  his  mattress  where  lay  the  twenty-two 
shillings  of  which  he  had  defrauded  Odiam.  His  love 
for  Bessie,  his  degraded  and  treacherous  hopes,  filled  the 
father  with  shame.  Had  he  then  lived  so  meanly  that 
such  mean  ambitions  should  inspire  his  son  ? 

"  A  cowman's  girl !  "  he  groaned,  "  at  Eggs  Hole, 
too,  where  they  doan't  know  plums  from  damsons  ! 
Marry  her  !  I'd  sooner  have  Albert  and  his  wenches." 

"  I  love  her,"  faltered  Robert. 

"  Well,  you'll  justabout  have  to  stop  loving  her, 
that's  all.  I'm  not  going  to  have  my  plaace  upset  by 
love.  Love's  all  very  well  when  there's  something  wud 
it  or  when  there's  nothing  in  it.  But  marrying  cow- 
men's girls  wudout  a  penny  in  their  pockets,  we  can't 
afford  to  kip  that  sort  o'  love  at  Odiam." 

"  Faather,"  pleaded  Robert,  "  you  loved  my  mother." 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  151 

"  Yes  —  but  she  wur  a  well-born  lady  wud  a  fortun. 
D'you  think  I'd  have  let  myself  love  her  if  she'd  bin 
poor  and  a  cowman's  daughter  ?  Not  me,  young 
feller  !  " 

"  But  you  can't  help  loving,  surelye." 

"  Well,  if  that's  wot  you  think,  the  sooner  you  find 
out  that  you  can  help  loving  the  better.  Did  I  ever 
hear  such  weak  womanish  slop  !  Help  loving  ?  You'll 
help  it  before  you're  many  days  older.  Meantime  you 
kip  away  from  that  girl,  and  all  them  hemmed  choir- 
singings  which  are  the  ruin  of  young  people." 

The  colour  rushed  into  Robert's  cheeks,  and  some- 
thing very  unfamiliar  and  very  unmanly  into  his  eyes. 

"  I'll  -  "  he  began  desperately.  But  even  Robert 
had  the  wit  not  to  finish  his  sentence. 


For  the  next  two  or  three  days  the  boy  was  desperate. 
His  manhood  was  in  a  trap.  He  thought  of  a  dozen  plans 
for  breaking  free,  but  whichever  way  he  turned  the  steel 
jaws  seemed  to  close  on  him.  What  could  he  do  ?  He 
was  not  strong  and  ruthless  like  his  father,  or  he  might 
have  broken  his  way  out  ;  he  was  not  clever  like  Richard, 
or  he  might  have  contrived  it.  Money,  money  —  that 
was  what  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  helplessness.  Even 
if  he  had  a  very  little  he  could  take  Bessie  away  and 
marry  her,  and  then  they  could  both  find  work  together 
on  a  farm.  But  he  had  not  a  penny.  He  tried  to 
borrow  some  of  Pete,  but  Pete  showed  him  his  empty 
pockets  : 

"  If  you'd  asked  me  after  the  Fair,  lad,  I  might  have 
been  able  to  let  you  have  a  shillun  or  two.  But  this  time 
o'  year,  I'm  as  poor  as  you  are." 

Meantime  Bessie  knew  nothing  of  the  darkness  in 
her  lover's  life.  She  was  working  away  sturdily  and 
patiently  at  Eggs  Hole,  looking  forward  to  meeting  him 


152  SUSSEX    GORSE 

on  practice  night,  and  going  with  him  to  the  Fair  a 
week  later. 

Saturday  came,  the  day  which  had  always  been 
Robert's  Sabbath,  with  a  glimpse  into  Paradise.  He 
toiled  miserably  with  the  horses,  Reuben's  stern  eye 
upon  him,  while  hatred  rose  and  bubbled  in  his  heart. 
What  right  had  his  father  to  treat  him  so  ? — to  make  a 
prisoner  and  a  slave  of  him  ?  He  vowed  to  himself  he 
would  break  free  ;  but  how  ? — how  ?  .  .  .  A  chink  of 
pence  in  Reuben's  pocket  seemed  like  a  mocking  answer. 

In  the  evening  the  taskmaster  disappeared,  to  gloat 
over  his  wheatfields.  Robert  knew  he  would  not  be 
back  till  supper-time  ;  only  Albert  was  working  with 
him  in  the  stable,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  persuade 
his  brother  to  hold  his  tongue  if  he  disappeared  for  an 
hour  or  two. 

"  I  want  to  go  into  Peasmarsh,"  he  said  to  Albert ; 
"  if  Faather  comes  and  asks  where  I  am,  you  can  always 
tell  him  I've  gone  over  to  Grandturzel  about  that  colt, 
can't  you  now  ?  " 

"  Reckon  I  can,"  said  Albert  good-naturedly,  know- 
ing that  some  day  he  might  want  his  brother  to  do  the 
same  for  him. 

So  Robert  put  on  his  Sunday  coat  as  usual  and 
tramped  away  to  the  village.  The  only  drawback  was 
that  from  the  high  wheatfield  Reuben  distinctly  saw 
him  go. 

He  reached  the  clerk's  house  a  little  while  after  the 
practice  had  started,  and  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  in 
at  the  window.  A  terrible  homesickness  rose  in  his 
heart.  Must  he  really  be  cut  off  from  all  these  delights  ? 
There  they  stood,  the  boys  and  girls,  his  friends,  singing 
"  Disposer  Supreme  "  till  the  rafters  rang.  Perhaps 
after  to-night  he  would  never  sing  with  them  again. 
Then  his  eyes  fell  on  Bessie,  and  the  hunger  drove  him  in. 

He  took  his  place  beside  her,  but  he  could  not  fix  his 
mind  on  what  they  sang.  In  the  intervals  between  the 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  153 

anthems  he  was  able  to  pour  out  instalments  of  his 
tragedy.  Bessie  was  very  brave,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to 
his,  and  would  not  let  them  falter,  but  he  felt  her  little 
coarse  fingers  trembling  in  his  hand. 

"  I  doan't  know  what  I'm  to  do,  my  dear,"  he 
mumbled ;  "  I  think  the  best  thing  'ud  be  fur  me  to  git 
work  on  a  farm  somewheres  away  from  here,  and  then 
maybe  in  time  I  cud  put  a  liddle  bit  of  money  by,  and 
you  cud  join  me." 

"  Oh,  doan't  leave  me,  Robert." 

For  the  first  time  the  courage  dimmed  in  her  eyes. 

"  Wot  else  am  I  to  do  ?"  he  exclaimed  wretchedly ; 
"  'taun't  even  as  if  I  cud  go  on  seeing  you  here.  Oh, 
Bessie !  I  can't  even  taake  you  to  the  Fair  on 
Thursday!" 

"  Wot  does  a  liddle  thing  lik  that  count  when  it's  all 
so  miserable  ?  " 

"  Disposer  Supreme, 

And  judge  of  the  earth, 
Who  choosest  for  thine 

The  weak  and  the  poor  .  .  ." 

The  anthem  crashed  gaily  into  their  sorrow,  and 
grasping  the  hymn-sheet  they  sang  together. 

"  Woan't  you  be  never  coming  here  no  more  ?  " 
whispered  Bessie  in  the  next  pause. 

"  Depends  on  if  my  faather  catches  me  or  not." 

He  drank  in  the  heat  and  stuffiness  of  the  little  room 
as  a  man  might  drink  water  in  a  desert,  not  knowing 
when  the  next  well  should  be.  He  loved  it,  even  to  the 
smoke-stains  on  the  sagging  rafters,  to  the  faint  smell 
of  onions  that  pervaded  it  all. 

"  All  honour  and  praise, 

Dominion  and  might, 
To  God,  Three  in  One, 

Eternally  be, 
Who  round  us  hath  shed 

His  own  marvellous  light, 
And  called  us  from  darkness 

His  glory  to  see." 


154  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Young  Ralph  Bardon  had  come  into  the  room,  and 
stood  by  the  door  while  the  last  verse  was  being  sung. 
He  was  there  to  give  an  invitation  from  his  father,  for 
every  year  the  Squire  provided  the  choristers  with  a 
mild  debauch  at  Flightshot.  Robert  had  been  to  several 
of  these,  and  they  glittered  in  his  memory — the  laughter 
and  games,  the  merry  fooling,  the  grand  supper  table 
gay  with  candles.  What  a  joke  it  had  been  when 
someone  had  given  the  salt  to  Rosie  Hubble  instead  of 
the  sugar  to  eat  with  her  apple  pie,  and  when  some 
other  wag  had  pulled  away  Ern  Ticehurst's  chair  from 
under  him.  .  .  . 

"  Thank  you,  sir — thank  you  kindly." 

The  invitation  had  been  given,  and  the  choristers 
were  crowding  towards  the  door.  Robert  followed  them 
mechanically.  It  was  raining  hard. 

"  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,"  said  Bessie,  "  I  never  brought 
my  cloak." 

"  You  must  put  on  my  coat." 

He  began  taking  it  off  when  he  heard  someone  beside 
them  say : 

"  I  have  a  great-coat  here." 

Robert  turned  round  and  faced  Bardon,  whose  eyes 
rested  approvingly  on  the  gleaming  froth  of  Bessie's 
hair. 

"I'm  driving  home  in  my  gig  with  a  rug  and  hood," 
continued  the  young  man,  "  so  I've  no  need  of  a  great- 
coat as  well." 

Robert  opened  his  mouth  to  refuse.  He  was  offended 
by  the  way  the  Squire  looked  at  Bessie.  But  on  second 
thoughts  he  realised  that  this  was  no  reason  for  de- 
priving her  of  a  wrap ;  his  own  coat  was  too  short  to 
be  much  good.  After  all  he  could  see  that  the  acquaint- 
ance went  no  further. 

Bessie  had,  however,  already  taken  the  matter  out  of 
his  hands  by  saying — "  Thank  you  kindly,  sir." 

"  You  see,  this  is  my  very  best  gown,"  she  confided 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  155 

to  Robert  outside  the  house,  "  and  I  doan't  know  wot 
I  shud  do  if  anything  happened  to  it." 

"  Well,  you're  not  to  taake  that  coat  back  to  Flight- 
shot yourself.  Give  it  to  me  when  we  come  to  Eggs 
Hole,  and  I'll  see  that  he  has  it." 

"  Very  well,  dear,"  she  answered  meekly. 

They  did  not  speak  much  on  that  walk  home.  Their 
minds  seemed  dank  and  washed  out  as  the  night.  Their 
wet  fingers  gripped  and  twined  .  .  .  what  was  the  use  of 
speaking  ?  Everything  seemed  hopeless — no  way  to 
turn,  no  plans  to  make,  no  friends  to  look  to. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  reached  Eggs  Hole,  and 
parted  after  kisses  no  longer  as  shy  as  they  used  to  be. 

On  arriving  at  Odiam,  Robert  was  seized  by  his 
father  and  flogged  within  an  inch  of  his  life. 

§12. 

Reuben  thought  that  he  had  efficiently  broken  his 
son's  rebellion.  All  the  next  day  Robert  seemed  utterly 
cowed.  He  was  worn  out  by  the  misery  of  the  last  few 
hours,  and  by  the  blows  which  in  the  end  had  dulled  all 
the  sore  activities  of  mind  and  soul  into  one  huge 
physical  ache.  Reuben  left  him  alone  most  of  the  day, 
smiling  grimly  to  himself  when  he  saw  him.  Robert 
spent  several  hours  lying  on  the  hay  in  the  Oast  barn, 
his  mind  as  inert  and  bruised  as  his  body.  He  had 
ceased  to  contrive  or  conjecture,  even  to  dread. 

Towards  evening,  however,  a  new  alarm  stirred  him 
a  little.  He  remembered  Bardon's  coat,  which  he  had 
brought  back  with  him  to  Odiam.  If  he  did  not  take  it 
over  to  Flightshot,  the  young  Squire  might  call  for  it  at 
Eggs  Hole.  Robert  was  most  anxious  that  he  should 
not  meet  Bessie  again  ;  he  could  not  forget  the  admira- 
tion in  his  eyes,  and  was  consumed  with  fear  and 
jealousy  lest  he  should  try  to  take  his  treasure  from 
him,  or  frighten  or  hurt  her  in  any  way.  It  is  true  that 
Bardon  had  a  blameless  record,  and  also  a  most  shy  and 


156  SUSSEX    GORSE 

fastidious  disposition,  but  Robert  was  no  psychologist. 
And  if  anyone  had  said  that  the  Squire's  gaze  had 
merely  been  one  of  tolerant  approval  of  a  healthy 
country-wench,  and  that  he  would  not  have  taken  the 
peerless  Bessie  as  a  gift,  and  rather  pitied  the  man  who 
could  see  anything  to  love  in  that  bursting  figure  and 
broad  yokelish  face — then  Robert  would  not  only  have 
disbelieved  him,  but  fought  him  into  the  bargain. 

So  he  managed  with  an  effort  to  pull  himself  together 
and  walk  a  couple  of  miles  across  the  fields  to  the  Manor. 
He  was  climbing  the  gate  by  Chapel  Barn  when  some- 
thing fell  out  of  the  pocket  of  the  coat.  Unluckily  it 
fell  on  the  far  side  of  the  gate,  and  Robert  with  many 
groans  and  curses  forced  his  stiff  body  over  again,  as  the 
object  was  a  smart  shagreen  pocket-book,  evidently  of 
some  value.  It  had  dropped  open  in  its  fall,  and  as  he 
picked  it  up,  a  bank-note  fluttered  out  and  eddied  to  the 
grass.  It  was  a  note  for  ten  pounds,  and  Robert  scowled 
as  he  replaced  it  in  the  pocket-book. 

It  was  a  hemmed  shame — life  was  crooked  and  unfair, 
in  spite  of  the  Disposer  Supreme  and  Judge  of  the  Earth. 
For  the  first  time  he  doubted  the  general  providence  of 
things.  Why  should  young  Bardon  with  his  easy 
manners  and  roving  lustful  eye  have  a  pocket  full  of 
money  to  spend  as  he  pleased,  whereas  he,  Robert,  who 
loved  truly  and  wanted  to  marry  his  love,  should  not 
have  a  penny  towards  his  desires  ?  This  was  the  first 
question  he  had  ever  asked  of  life,  and  its  effect  was  to 
upset  not  only  the  little  store  of  maxims  and  truisms 
which  made  his  philosophy,  but  those  rules  of  conduct 
which  depended  on  them.  One  did  not  take  what  did 
not  belong  to  one  because  in  church  the  Curate  said, 
"  Thou  shalt  not  steal,"  whereat  the  choristers  would 
sing,  "  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us,  and  incline  our  hearts 
to  keep  this  law."  Nevertheless,  that  bank-note  spent 
the  last  mile  of  the  way  in  Robert's  pocket. 

The  act  was  not  really  so  revolutionary  as  might  at 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  157 

first  appear,  for  up  to  the  very  steps  of  the  Manor  he 
kept  on  telling  himself  that  he  would  put  it  back.  But 
somehow  he  did  not  do  so — when  he  handed  the  coat  to 
the  man-servant  the  pocket-book  was  still  in  his  stable- 
smelling  corduroys. 

Well,  he  had  taken  it  now — it  was  too  late  to  give  it 
back.  Besides,  why  should  he  not  have  it  ?  Those  ten 
pounds  probably  did  not  mean  much  to  the  Squire,  but 
they  meant  all  things  to  him  and  Bessie.  He  could 
marry  her  now.  He  could  take  her  away,  find  work  on 
some  distant  farm,  and  comfortably  set  up  house.  The 
possibilities  of  ten  pounds  were  unlimited — at  all  events 
they  could  give  him  all  he  asked  of  life. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  woke  up  feeling  quite 
differently.  A  sick  and  guilty  horror  overwhelmed  him. 
He  must  have  been  delirious  the  day  before,  light- 
headed with  pain  and  misery.  Now  he  saw  clearly  what 
he  had  done.  He  was  a  thief.  He  had  committed  a 
terrible  sin— broken  one  of  the  Ten  Commandments.  He 
might  be  caught  and  put  in  prison,  anyhow,  the  God 
who  said,  "  Thou  shalt  not  "  would  punish  him  and 
perhaps  Bessie  too.  The  sweat  poured  down  Robert's 
forehead  and  off  his  cheeks.  The  future  seemed  to  be 
closing  in  upon  him  with  iron  walls.  He  trembled, 
cowered,  and  would  have  said,  "  Our  Father  "  if  he 
dared.  Oh  God,  why  had  he  done  this  dreadful  thing  ? 

Luckily  his  body  was  so  tired  that  even  his  kicking 
mind  could  not  keep  it  awake.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst 
of  all  his  remorse  and  terror,  he  fell  asleep,  and  did  not 
wake  till  sunshine  two  hours  old  was  on  his  pillow. 

When  he  woke,  the  nightmare  had  passed.  Instead, 
he  saw  things  as  he  had  seen  them  yesterday.  He  could 
marry  Bessie — and  he  must  do  so  quickly,  seize  his 
chance  for  fear  it  should  slip  from  him  again.  This  time 
he  must  not  muddle  things.  Above  all  he  must  avoid 
coming  into  conflict  with  his  father — he  was  more  afraid 
of  Reuben  than  of  all  the  police  in  Sussex. 


158  SUSSEX    GORSE 


§13- 

All  that  day  he  expected  to  hear  that  the  theft  had 
been  discovered.  The  Squire  would  be  sure  to  remember 
his  pocket-book  and  where  he  had  put  it.  However, 
time  passed  and  nothing  happened.  It  was  possible  that 
young  Bardon  had  not  yet  found  out  his  loss.  But 
Robert  felt  sure  that  when,  sooner  or  later,  the  money 
was  missed,  it  would  be  traced  to  him.  He  must  act 
quickly.  Oh  Lord !  how  he  hated  having  to  act 
quickly  !  It  was  now  a  race  between  him  and  fate — 
and  Fate  must  have  smiled.  .  .  . 

First  of  all  he  had  to  see  Bessie.  He  could  not  send 
her  a  letter,  for  she  could  not  read.  He  must  somehow 
manage  to  go  over  to  Eggs  Hole.  He  would  not  tell  her 
how  he  had  come  by  the  ten  pounds.  A  pang  went 
into  his  heart  like  a  thorn  as  he  realised  this,  but  he  felt 
that  if  she  knew  she  might  refuse  to  go  away  with  him. 
He  would  marry  her  first,  and  confess  to  her  afterwards. 
Perhaps  some  day  they  might  be  able  to  return  the 
money — meantime  he  would  say  that  a  friend  had  lent 
it  to  him.  The  thought  of  this,  his  first  lie  to  her,  hurt 
him  more  than  the  actual  theft. 

He  managed  to  slip  over  to  Eggs  Hole  that  evening. 
Albert,  whom  his  father  had  not  treated  gently  on  the 
day  of  the  choir  practice,  refused  to  be  his  accomplice 
a  second  time,  but  Reuben,  thinking  his  rebellion 
crushed,  kept  a  less  strict  watch  over  him,  and  took 
himself  off  after  supper  to  the  Cocks,  where  he  had 
weighty  matters  of  politics  and  agriculture  to  discuss. 
Robert  seized  his  opportunity,  and  ran  the  whole  way 
to  Eggs  Hole — laid  his  plans  before  Bessie — and  ran 
the  whole  way  back  again. 

Bessie  was  as  surprised  as  she  was  delighted  to  hear 
that  he  should  suddenly  have  found  a  friend  to  lend 
him  ten  pounds — "  a  feller  called  Tim  Harman,  lives 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  159 

over  at  Rolvenden,"  said  Robert  in  a  perspiring  effort 
to  be  convincing.  However,  it  never  struck  her  to  doubt 
his  word,  and  she  put  down  to  emotion  and  hard  running 
all  that  seemed  strange  in  her  sweetheart's  manner. 

Bessie  was  quicker  and  more  practical  than  Robert, 
and  between  them  they  evolved  a  fairly  respectable 
scheme.  Next  Thursday  was  Fair  Day,  and  all  the 
Backfield  family,  including  Robert,  would  be  at  the 
Fair.  She  would  meet  him  in  Meridiana  the  gipsy's 
tent  at  five — it  was  right  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Fair, 
and  they  could  enter  separately  without  attracting 
attention,  on  the  pretext  of  having  their  fortunes  told. 
Then  they  could  easily  steal  off  under  cover  of  dusk. 
They  would  go  to  Wadhurst,  where  there  were  many 
farms — get  work  together,  and  marry  at  once.  Meantime 
Robert  was  to  divert  suspicion  by  his  blameless  conduct, 
and  find  out  as  well  as  he  could  exactly  what  one  did  to 
get  married. 

On  arriving  home  he  was  uncertain  as  to  whether  it 
would  be  more  diplomatic  to  go  straight  to  bed  or  let 
his  father  on  his  return  from  the  Cocks  find  him  industri- 
ously working  at  the  corn  accounts.  He  decided  on  the 
latter,  and  was  soon  with  many  groans  and  lickings  of 
his  pencil  crediting  and  debiting  Odiam's  wheat. 

Backfield  came  in  about  nine,  by  which  time  Robert's 
panting  had  completely  subsided  and  his  complexion 
lost  the  beetroot  shade  which  might  have  betrayed  his 
exertions.  His  father  was  in  a  good  temper,  and  over- 
flowed with  the  Cocks'  gossip — how  Realf  had  got 
twenty-five  pounds  for  his  heifer  at  Battle,  how  the 
mustard  had  mixed  in  with  Ticehurst's  beans  and  spoilt 
his  crop,  how  Dunk  of  Old  Turk  said  he  would  vote 
Radical  at  the  next  election,  and  how  young  Squire 
Bardon  had  been  robbed  of  his  pocket-book,  with 
certificates  for  three  hundred  pounds  of  Canadian  stock 
and  a  ten-pound  bank-note  in  it. 

Robert  bit  off  the  end  of  his  pencil,  which  his  father, 


160  SUSSEX    GORSE 

who  was  looking  the  other  way,  luckily  did  not  see. 
The  boy  crouched  over  the  fire,  trying  to  hide  his 
trembling,  and  longing  yet  not  daring  to  ask  a  hundred 
questions.  He  was  glad  and  at  the  same  time  sorry 
when  Reuben  having  explained  to  him  the  right  and  the 
wrong  way  of  sowing  beans,  and  enlarged  on  the  wicked- 
ness of  Radicals  in  general  and  Gladstone  in  particular, 
returned  to  Bardon's  loss. 

"  Of  course  he  aun't  sure  as  it  wur  stolen — he  may 
have  dropped  it.  But  policeman  doan't  think  that's 
likely." 

"  Then  policeman's  bin  toald  about  it  ?  "  came 
faintly  from  Robert. 

"  Surelye  !  I  wur  spikking  to  him  over  at  the  Cocks. 
I  said  to  him  as  I  wur  sartain  as  one  of  those  lousy 
Workman's  Institute  lads  of  his  had  done  it.  That's 
wot  comes  of  trying  to  help  labourers  and  cowmen  and 
such — there's  naun  lik  helping  the  poor  fur  putting 
them  above  themselves,  and  in  these  times  when  every- 
one's fur  giving  'em  votes  and  eddicating  them  free, 
why "  and  Reuben  launched  into  politics  again. 

That  night  was  another  Hell.  Robert  lay  wakeful  in 
a  rigor  of  despair.  It  was  all  over  now.  The  constable 
would  be  at  Odiam  the  first  thing  next  morning.  Bardon 
was  bound  to  remember  that  his  pocket-book  was  in  the 
coat  he  had  lent  Bessie.  He  might  even  think  that 
Bessie  had  taken  it !  This  fresh  horror  nearly  sent 
Robert  out  of  the  window  and  over  the  fields  to  the 
Manor  to  confess  his  crime.  But  he  was  kept  back  by 
the  glimmerings  of  hope  which,  like  a  summer  lightning, 
played  fitfully  over  his  mental  landscape.  He  dared  not 
stake  everything.  Perhaps  after  all  young  Bardon 
could  not  remember  where  he  had  put  the  pocket-book  ; 
he  must  have  forgotten  where  it  was  when  he  offered 
the  coat  to  Bessie,  and  it  was  possible  that  he  would  not 
remember  till  the  lovers  had  escaped — after  which  he 
might  remember  as  much  as  he  liked,  for  Robert  never 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  161 

thought  for  a  moment  that  he  could  be  traced  once  he 
had  left  Peasmarsh. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  his  simplicity  had  done  much  for 
him  in  this  matter.  A  man  with  a  readier  cunning  would 
have  taken  out  the  money  and  restored  the  pocket-book 
exactly  as  he  had  found  it.  Robert  had  blunderingly 
grabbed  the  whole  thing — and  to  that  he  owed  his 
safety.  If  Bardon  had  found  the  pocket-book  in  his 
great-coat,  he  would  at  once  have  reconstructed  the 
whole  incident.  As  things  were,  he  scarcely  remembered 
lending  the  coat  to  Bessie,  and  it  had  certainly  never 
occurred  to  him  that  his  pocket-book  was  in  it.  Being 
rather  a  careless  and  absent-minded  young  man,  he  had 
no  recollection  of  putting  it  there  after  some  discussion 
with  Sir  Miles  about  his  certificates.  He  generally  kept 
it  in  his  drawer,  and  thought  that  it  must  have  been 
taken  out  of  that. 

So  no  constable  called  at  Odiam  the  next  morning,  and 
at  breakfast  the  whole  Backfield  family  discussed  the 
Squire's  loss,  with  the  general  tag  of  "  serve  him 
right !  " 

The  following  day  was  market-day  at  Rye,  and 
Robert  and  Peter  were  to  take  over  the  cart.  Robert 
was  glad  of  this,  for  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
must  change  the  bank-note.  If  he  tried  to  change  it  at 
the  Fair  or  after  he  had  gone  away  with  Bessie  it  might 
arouse  suspicion  ;  but  no  one  would  think  anything  of 
his  father  having  so  large  a  sum,  and  he  could  offer  it 
when  he  went  to  pay  the  harness  bill  at  the  saddler's. 
As  for  the  pocket-book,  he  threw  that  into  the  horse- 
pond  when  no  one  was  looking ;  it  was  best  out  of  the 
way,  and  the  three  hundred  pounds'  worth  of  certificates 
it  contained  meant  nothing  to  him. 

Fate,  having  thus  generously  given  him  a  start,  con- 
tinued to  encourage  him  in  the  race  he  was  running 
against  her.  On  the  way  to  Rye  he  fell  in  with  Bertie 
Ditch.  Bertie  was  going  to  marry  a  girl  up  at  Bright- 


162  SUSSEX    GORSE 

ling,  and  Robert  found  that  there  was  nothing  easier 
than  to  discuss  with  him  the  ways  and  means  of 
marriage.  From  his  ravings  on  his  marriage  in  par- 
ticular precious  information  with  regard  to  marriage  in 
general  could  be  extracted.  Oh,  yes,  he  had  heard  of 
fellows  who  got  married  by  licence,  but  banns  were 
more  genteel,  and  he  didn't  doubt  but  that  a  marriage 
by  banns  was  altogether  a  better  and  more  religious 
sort.  He  and  Nellie,  etc.,  etc.  .  .  .  Oh,  he  didn't 
think  a  licence  cost  much — two  or  three  pounds,  and  an 
ordinary  wedding  by  banns  would  cost  quite  as  much 
as  that,  when  one  had  paid  for  the  choir  and  the  ringers 
and  the  breakfast.  Now  he  and  Nellie  ...  oh,  of 
course,  if  you  were  in  a  hurry — yes ;  but  anyhow  he 
thought  one  of  the  parties  must  live  a  week  or  so  in  the 
parish  where  the  marriage  was  to  take  place. 

Robert,  after  some  considering,  decided  to  go  with 
Bessie  to  Wadhurst,  and  ask  the  clergyman  there 
exactly  what  they  ought  to  do.  He  could  easily  find  a 
room  for  her  where  she  could  stay  till  the  law  had  been 
complied  with.  They  would  travel  by  the  new  railway. 
It  would  be  rather  alarming,  but  Jenny  Vennal  had  once 
been  to  Brighton  by  train  and  said  that  the  only  thing 
against  it  was  the  dirt. 

So  gradually  the  difficult  future  was  being  settled. 
When  they  came  to  Rye  Robert  left  Peter  to  unpack 
the  cart  and  went  to  pay  the  harness  bill  at  the  saddler's. 
Reuben  had  given  him  five  pounds,  but  he  handed  over 
the  terrible  bank-note,  which  was  accepted  without 
comment. 

Fate  still  allowed  him  to  run  ahead. 

§14- 

Thursday  broke  clear  and  windy — little  curls  of  cloud 
flew  high  against  spreads  of  watery  blue,  and  the  wind 
raced  over  Boarzell,  smelling  of  wet  furrows.  As  usual 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  163 

everyone  at  Odiam  was  going  to  the  Fair — even  Mrs. 
Backfield,  for  Reuben  said  that  he  would  not  let  the 
girls  go  without  her.  Caro  and  Tilly  were  now  fifteen 
and  sixteen,  and  their  father  began  to  have  fears  lest 
they  should  marry  and  leave  him.  Tilly  especially,  with 
her  creamy  complexion  like  Naomi's,  and  her  little  tip- 
tilted  nose,  freckled  over  the  bridge,  gave  him  anxious 
times.  He  sternly  discouraged  any  of  the  neighbouring 
farmers'  sons  who  seemed  inclined  to  call ;  he  was  not 
going  to  lose  his  daughters  just  when  Mrs.  Backfield's 
poor  health  made  them  indispensable.  It  could  not  be 
long  before  his  mother  died — already  her  bouts  of 
rheumatism  were  so  severe  that  she  was  practically 
crippled  each  winter — and  when  she  died  Tilly  and  Caro 
must  take  her  place. 

Robert  had  not  slept  at  all  that  night.  Already 
sleeplessness,  excitement,  and  anxiety  had  put  their 
mark  on  him,  giving  a  certain  waxiness  to  his  com- 
plexion and  dullness  to  his  eyes  ;  but  this  morning  he 
had  curled  and  oiled  his  hair  and  put  on  his  best  clothes, 
which  diverted  the  family  attention,  and  in  some  way 
accounted  for  his  altered  looks.  Everyone  at  the 
breakfast-table  wore  Sunday-best,  except  Beatup,  who 
was  to  mind  the  farm  in  the  morning,  Richard  taking 
his  place  in  the  afternoon. 

Peter's  strong  frame  and  broad  shoulders  were  shown 
off  in  all  their  glory  by  his  tight  blue  coat — he  was 
spoiling  for  the  fight,  every  now  and  then  clenching  his 
fists  under  the  table,  and  dreaming  of  smart  cuts  and 
irresistible  bashes.  Albert  thought  of  the  pretty  girls 
he  would  dance  with,  and  the  one  he  would  choose  to 
lead  away  into  the  rustling  solitude  of  Boarzell  when 
his  father  was  not  looking  ...  to  lie  where  the  gorse 
flowers  would  scatter  on  their  faces,  and  her  dress  smell 
of  the  dead  heather  as  he  clasped  her  to  him.  Richard 
was  inclined  to  sneer  at  these  rustic  flings,  and  to  regret 
the  westward  pastures  where  Greek  syntax  and  Anne 


164  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Bardon  exalted  life.  Jemmy  and  George  thought  of 
nothing  but  the  swings  and  merry-go-rounds ;  Tilly 
and  Caro  did  not  think  at  all,  but  wondered.  Reuben 
watched  their  big  eyes,  so  different  from  the  boys',  Tilly's 
very  blue,  Caro's  very  brown,  and  felt  relieved  when  he 
looked  from  them  to  their  grandmother,  sitting  stiffly  in 
a  patched  survival  of  the  widow's  dress,  her  knotted 
hands  before  her  on  the  table,  at  once  too  indifferent 
and  too  devoted  to  pity  the  questing  youth  of  these  two 
girls. 

Reuben  himself,  in  his  grey  cloth  suit,  starched  shirt, 
and  spotted  tie,  was  perhaps  the  most  striking  of  the 
company.  Albert,  the  only  one  who  had  more  than  a 
vague  appreciation  of  his  father's  looks,  realised  how 
utterly  he  had  beaten  his  sons  in  their  young  men's 
game  before  cracked  mirrors,  showing  up  completely 
the  failure  of  their  waistcoats,  ties,  and  hair  oils  in 
comparison  with  his.  As  was  usual  on  festive  occasions, 
his  hair  was  sleeked  out  of  its  accustomed  roughness, 
lying  in  blue-black  masses  of  extraordinary  shininess 
and  thickness  on  his  temples ;  his  tight-fitting  trousers 
displayed  his  splendid  legs,  and  when  he  spoke  he 
showed  finer  teeth  than  any  of  the  youngsters.  Albert 
scowled  as  he  admired,  for  he  knew  that  no  girl  would 
take  him  if  she  had  a  chance  of  his  father. 

Next  to  Reuben  sat  Harry — the  other  man  whom 
Boarzell  had  made.  He  slouched  forward  over  his  plate, 
in  terror  lest  the  food  which  dropped  continually  out  of 
his  mouth  should  fall  on  the  tablecloth,  and  he  should 
be  scolded.  He  looked  at  least  ten  years  older  than 
Reuben,  for  his  face  was  covered  with  wrinkles,  and 
there  were  streaks  of  grey  in  his  hair.  As  he  sat  and  ate 
he  muttered  to  himself.  No  one  took  any  notice  of  hiin, 
for  the  children  had  been  brought  up  to  look  upon  Uncle 
Harry  as  a  sort  of  animal,  to  whom  one  must  be  kind, 
but  with  whom  it  was  impossible  to  hold  any  rational 
conversation.  Tilly  was  the  most  attentive  to  him,  and 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  165 

would  cut  up  his  food  and  sometimes  even  put  it  in 
his  mouth. 

After  breakfast  the  whole  family  set  out  for  the  Moor, 
Odiam  looked  unnatural  with  its  empty  yard,  where  the 
discouraged  Beatup  mouched,  gazing  longingly  and 
chewing  a  straw.  But  every  farm  round  Boarzell  looked 
the  same,  for  Boarzell  Fair  emptied  the  neighbourhood 
as  completely  as  a  pilgrimage  would  empty  a  Breton 
hamlet — only  the  beasts  and  unwilling  house-keepers 
were  left  behind. 

Though  it  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock  the  Fair  was 
crowded.  A  shout  greeted  Harry's  appearance  with 
his  fiddle,  for  it  was  never  too  early  to  dance.  Blind 
Harry  climbed  on  his  tub,  flourished  his  bow  with  many 
horrible  smiles — for  he  loved  his  treats  of  popularity 
and  attention — and  started  the  new  tune  "  My  Decided 
Decision,"  which  Caro  and  Tilly  had  taught  him  the 
day  before.  Albert  immediately  caught  a  pretty  girl 
by  the  waist,  and  spun  round  with  her  on  the  grass 
while  Pete  vanished  into  the  sparring-booth,  his 
shoulders  already  out  of  his  coat.  Mrs.  Backfield  led  off 
Caro  and  Tilly,  looking  sidelong  at  the  dancers,  to  the 
more  staid  entertainment  of  the  stalls.  Jemmy  and 
George  ran  straight  to  the  merry-go-round,  which  now 
worked  by  steam,  and  hooted  shrilly  as  it  swung. 
Robert  and  Richard  stood  with  their  arms  folded, 
watching  the  dancing  with  very  different  expressions 
on  their  faces. 

At  last  Robert  decided  to  lead  out  Emily  Ditch, 
thinking  that  it  might  lull  his  father's  suspicions  if  he 
had  any.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  son  Reuben  watched 
most  closely  was  Albert.  He  looked  upon  Robert's 
a#air  as  settled,  for  the  present  at  any  rate,  and  credited 
him — perhaps  rightly—with  so  poor  a  cunning  that  an 
occasional  glance  would  serve ;  whereas  Albert's  oiled 
hair,  stiff  shirt-front,  and  clean  white  handkerchief 
roused  all  his  fears  and  carefulness  together. 


166  SUSSEX    GORSE 

After  the  dance,  which  did  not  last  long,  as  poor 
Robert  trod  so  heavily  on  his  partner's  feet  that  she 
soon  begged  him  to  stop,  they  strolled  off  round  the 
Fair.  Robert  thought  that  if  he  made  it  a  custom  to 
roam  among  the  booths  his  father  would  not  notice  his 
final  disappearance  so  quickly.  Lord  !  he  was  getting 
a  hemmed  crafty  fellow.  All  the  boys  were  allowed  a 
shilling  or  two  to  spend  at  the  Fair,  so  Robert  treated 
Emily  to  a  ride  on  the  merry-go-round  and  five  sea-sick 
minutes  in  the  swings.  Then  he  took  Mrs.  Button — 
Realf's  married  daughter,  who  had  come  over  from 
Hove,  to  see  the  Panorama  and  a  new  attraction  in  the 
shape  of  a  fat  lady,  which  struck  him  as  disgusting,  but 
made  her  laugh  tremendously. 

He  clung  to  Mrs.  Button  for  most  of  the  morning  and 
afternoon,  for  he  felt  that  she  drove  away  suspicion, 
and  at  the  same  time  had  not  the  disadvantage  of 
Emily  Ditch,  who  had  once  or  twice  alarmed  him  by 
affectionately  squeezing  his  hand.  He  did  not  take  her 
to  the  fighting  booth,  as  public  opinion  had  shut  that 
to  ladies  during  the  years  that  had  passed  since  Reuben 
had  sat  with  Naomi  in  the  heat  and  sawdust — but  she 
stood  behind  him  in  the  shooting  gallery,  whilst  he 
impartially  scored  bulls  in  the  mouths  of  Disraeli, 
Gladstone,  and  the  Emperor  of  France. 

"  Let's  go  and  dance  now/'  she  said  as  he  pocketed 
his  bag  of  nuts. 

Robert  wondered  anxiously  what  time  it  was ; 
already  a  faint  blear  of  red  was  creeping  into  the  cold, 
twinkling  afternoon.  The  moon  rose  at  a  quarter  to 
five — when  he  saw  it  come  up  into  the  sky  out  of  Iden 
Wood  he  must  go  to  Meridiana's  tent.  He  led  Mrs. 
Button  to  where  the  dancers  jigged  to  Harry's  unending 
tune.  Reuben  stood  on  the  outskirts,  among  the 
spectators,  watching  with  a  stern  eye  Albert  snatch 
kisses  off  a  Winchelsea  girl's  brown  neck  as  he  swung 
her  round.  Luckily  for  Robert  his  brother  was  behaving 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  167 

outrageously — his  misdeeds  were  as  usual  flagrant ; 
just  at  that  moment  he  pulled  down  his  partner's  hair, 
and  they  whirled  about  together,  laughing  in  the  coarse 
mesh  that  blinded  them  both.  Reuben's  mouth  was  a 
hard,  straight  line,  and  his  eyes  like  steel.  He  scarcely 
noticed  Robert  and  Mrs.  Button  hopping  about  together, 
and  he  did  not  see  when  half  an  hour  later  the  boy  stole 
away  alone. 

Robert  felt  warm  and  glowing — he  had  enjoyed  that 
dance,  and  wished  he  could  have  danced  with  Bessie. 
Perhaps  he  would  dance  with  her  some  day.  .  .  . 
Behind  him,  the  creak  of  Harry's  fiddle  sounded  plain- 
tively, with  every  now  and  then  a  hoot  from  the  merry- 
go-round.  The  dusk  was  falling  quickly.  Yellow  flares 
sprang  up  from  the  stalls,  casting  a  strange  web  of 
light  and  darkness  over  the  Fair.  Gideon  Teazel  looked 
like  some  carved  Colossus  as  he  stood  by  the  round- 
about, his  great  beard  glowing  on  his  breast  like  flames 
.  .  .  behind,  in  the  smeeth  of  twilight,  with  the 
wriggling  flare  of  the  lamps,  the  lump  of  dancers  did 
not  seem  to  dance,  but  to  writhe  like  some  monster  on 
the  green,  sending  out  tentacles,  shooting  up  spines, 
emitting  strange  grunts  and  squalls — and  at  the  back 
of  it  all  the  jig,  jig,  jig  of  Harry's  tune. 

Further  on,  in  the  secrecy  of  the  tents  and  caravans, 
the  dusk  became  full  of  cowering  shapes,  sometimes 
slipping  and  sliding  about  apart,  sometimes  blotted 
together  .  .  .  there  were  whispers,  rustlings,  strugglings, 
low  cries  of  "  doan't  "  and  "  adone  do  !  " — the  sound 
of  kisses  .  .  .  kisses  .  .  .  they  followed  Robert  all  the 
way  to  Meridiana's  tent,  where,  standing  in  the  brazier 
glow,  and  flushed  besides  with  crimson  of  her  own, 
stood  Bessie. 

Their  eyes  met  over  the  flames  ;  then  Robert  re- 
membered the  need  for  keeping  up  appearances,  and 
said  he  wanted  his  fortune  told.  He  could  scarcely  wait 
while  Meridiana  muttered  about  a  fair  young  lady  and 


168  SUSSEX    GORSE 

a  heap  of  money  coming  to  him  in  a  year  or  two.  Bessie 
slipped  round  the  brazier  and  stood  beside  him,  their 
hands  impudently  locked,  each  finger  of  the  boy's 
clinging  round  a  finger  of  the  girl's. 

Meridiana's  low  sing-song  continued  : 

"  It's  a  gorgeous  time  I  see  before  you,  dear  ;  riches 
and  a  carriage  and  servants  in  livery,  and  a  beautiful 
wife  decked  over  with  jewels  and  gold  as  bright  as  her 
hair — success  and  a  fair  name,  honour  and  a  ripe  old 
age — and  remember  the  poor  gipsy  woman,  won't  you, 
darling  ?  " 

But  he  had  already  forgotten  her.  He  stood  with  his 
arm  round  Bessie,  stooping  under  the  canvas  roof,  half 
choking  in  the  brazier  reek,  while  his  lips  came  closer 
and  closer  to  her  face  .  .  . 

"  Hir  me  duval !  "  said  Meridiana  to  herself,  "  but 
they've  forgotten  the  poor  person's  child." 

She  saw  them  go  out  of  the  tent,  still  linked  and  in 
their  dream,  then  watched  their  dark  shapes  stoop 
against  the  sky. 

They  clung  together  panting  and  trembling,  for  she  was 
really  his  at  last,  and  he  was  hers.  Before  them  lay  the 
darkness,  but  they  would  go  into  it  hand  in  hand.  She 
was  his,  and  he  was  hers. 

At  last  they  dropped  their  arms  and  stood  apart.  The 
dusk  was  full  of  rustlings,  Sittings,  scuttlings,  kisses  .  .  . 

"  God  bless  you,  gorgeous  lady  and  gentleman,"  cried 
Meridiana  shrilly  from  the  tent — "  the  dukkerin  dukk 
tells  me  that  you  shall  always  wear  satin  and  velvet,  and 
have  honour  wherever  you  go." 

Then  suddenly  a  heavy  hand  fell  on  Robert's  shoulder, 
and  a  voice  said  : 

"  Robert  Backfield,  I  arrest  you  on  the  charge  of 
stealing  a  pocket-book  containing  bonds  and  money 
from  Squire  Ralph  Bardon  of  Flightshot." 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  169 


With  many  tears,  and  the  help  of  the  kindly  farmer's 
daughter  at  Eggs  Hole,  who  acted  as  penwoman,  Bessie 
wrote  a  letter  to  Robert  in  the  Battery  gaol : 

"  You  must  not  think,  my  dearest  lad,  that  any- 
thing what  you  have  done  can  separate  you  and  me. 
We  belong  to  each  other  as  it  seems,  and  what  you 
have  done  I  forgive  as  you  would  if  I  had  done  it.  I 
shall  always  be  yours,  Robby,  no  matter  how  long  you 
are  in  prison,  I  shall  be  waiting,  and  thinking  of  you 
always.  And  I  forgive  you  for  not  telling  me  you  had 
taken  the  money,  but  that  a  friend  had  lent  it  to  you, 
because  you  thought  I  would  not  have  gone  away  with 
you,  but  I  would  have,  surely.  Be  brave  and  do  not 
fret.  I  wish  it  was  all  over,  but  we  must  not  fret. 

"  From  your  loving 

"  BESSIE." 

The  proceedings  before  the  Rye  magistrates  had  been 
brief,  and  ended  in  Robert's  committal  for  trial  at 
Quarter  Sessions.  He  had  made  no  attempt  to  deny  his 
guilt — it  would  have  been  useless.  He  was  almost  dumb 
in  the  dock,  for  his  soul  was  struck  with  wonder  at  the 
cruel  circumstances  which  had  betrayed  him. 

He  had  been  tracked  by  the  number  on  the  note — it 
was  the  first  time  he  realised  that  notes  had  numbers. 
This  particular  note  had  been  given  by  Sir  Miles  Bardon 
to  his  son  as  a  part  of  his  quarterly  allowance,  and 
though  Ralph  was  far  too  unpractical  to  notice  the 
number  himself,  his  father  had  a  habit  of  marking  such 
things,  and  had  written  it  down. 

The  saddler  at  Rye  had  not  heard  of  the  theft  when 
young  Backfield  handed  over  the  note  in  payment  of  the 
harness  bill.  He  had  at  the  time  remarked  to  his  wife 


170  SUSSEX    GORSE 

that  old  Ben  seemed  pretty  flush  with  his  money,  but 
had  thought  no  more  of  it  till  the  matter  was  cried  by 
the  Town  Crier  that  evening,  after  Robert  and  Pete  had 
gone  home.  Then  out  of  mere  curiosity  he  had  looked 
at  the  number  on  his  note,  and  found  it  was  the  same  as 
the  Crier  had  announced.  Early  the  next  day  he  went 
to  the  Police  Station,  and  as  young  Bardon  now  re- 
membered lending  his  coat  to  Robert  Backfield  it  was 
fairly  easy  to  guess  how  the  theft  had  been  committed. 

The  Squire  regretted  the  matter  profoundly,  but  it 
was  too  late  now  not  to  proceed  with  it,  so  he  made  it 
a  hundred  times  worse  by  writing  an  apologetic  letter 
to  Reuben,  and  asking  the  magistrate  to  deal  gently  with 
the  offender.  Robert's  pathetic  story,  and  the  tearful 
evidence  of  his  sweetheart,  gave  him  at  once  all  the 
public  sympathy  ;  the  blame  was  divided  pretty  equally 
between  the  Bardons  and  Backfield. 

Richard  bitterly  abused  his  father  to  Anne,  as  they 
met  in  the  midst  of  the  strife  of  their  two  families  : 

"  It's  always  the  same,  he  keeps  us  under,  and  makes 
our  lives  a  misery  till  we  do  something  mad.  He's  only 
got  himself  to  thank  for  this.  We're  all  the  slaves  of  his 
tedious  farm " 

"  I  should  rather  say  '  abominable,' "  Anne  inter- 
rupted gently. 

"  His  abominable  farm — he  gets  every  bit  of  work  out 
of  us  he  can,  till  we're  justabout  desperate " 

"  Till  we're  absolutely  desperate." 

"  And  he  expects  us  to  care  for  nothing  but  his  vulgar 
ambitions.  Oh  Lord  !  I  wish  I  was  out  of  it !  " 

"  Perhaps  you  will  be  out  of  it  some  day." 

He  shrugged. 

"  How  should  I  get  free  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  a  friend  might  help  you." 

He  looked  into  her  face,  then  suddenly  crimsoned — 
then  paled,  to  flush  again  : 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  ma'am — if  ever  you  cud  help  me  get 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  171 

free — if  ever  ...  oh,  I — I'd  sarve  you  all  my  life — 
I'd " 

"  Hush/'  she  said  gently — "  that's  still  in  the  future — 
and  remember  not  to  say  '  sarve.'  " 

The  Quarter  Sessions  were  held  early  in  December, 
and  Robert's  case  came  wedged  between  the  too  hopeful 
finances  of  a  journeyman  butcher  and  the  woes  of  a 
farmer  from  Guldeford  who  had  tried  to  drown  himself 
and  his  little  boy  off  the  Midrips.  Robert  was  sentenced 
to  three  years'  imprisonment. 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  about  the  trial,  and 
nothing  to  be  said  against  the  sentence  from  the  point 
of  either  justice  or  humanity.  Ten  years  ago  the  boy 
would  have  been  transported  to  Van  Diemen's  Land. 
The  Bar  dons  took  it  upon  themselves  to  be  outrage- 
ously sorry,  and  were  rather  mystified  by  Reuben's 
contemptuous  attitude  towards  them  and  their  re- 
grets. 

The  evidence  had  been  merely  a  repetition  of  that 
which  had  been  given  before  the  magistrate,  though 
Bessie  did  not  cry  this  time  in  the  witness-box,  and 
Robert  in  the  dock  was  not  dumb — on  the  contrary,  he 
tried  to  explain  to  the  Recorder  what  it  felt  like  to  have 
absolutely  no  money  of  one's  own. 

Reuben  was  present  at  the  trial,  and  sitting  erect,  in 
his  good  town  clothes,  drew  the  public  glance  away  both 
from  the  prisoner  and  the  Recorder.  Feeling  was 
against  him,  and  when  in  his  summing-up  Mr.  Reeve 
remarked  on  the  strangeness  of  a  young  man  of  Back- 
field's  age  having  no  money  and  being  compelled  to 
work  without  wages,  a  low  murmur  went  round  the 
court,  which  Reuben  did  not  seem  to  hear.  He  sat  very 
stiffly  while  the  sentence  was  pronounced,  and  after- 
wards refused  to  see  his  son  before  he  was  taken  away 
to  Lewes. 

"  Poor  feller,  this  'ull  be  the  breaking  of  him,"  said 
Vennal  outside  the  Court-house. 


172  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  No  more'n  he  deserves.  He's  a  hard  man,"  said 
Ditch. 

"  Thinks  only  of  his  farm  and  nothing  of  his  flesh  and 
blood,"  said  old  Realf. 

11  It  sarves  un  right,"  said  Ginner. 

So  it  was  throughout  the  crowd.  Some  said  "  poor 
man,"  others  muttered  "  his  own  fault."  But  all  words, 
either  of  pity  or  blame,  were  silenced  when  Backfield 
came  out  of  the  Court-house  and  walked  through  the 
people,  his  head  high,  his  step  firm,  his  back  straight. 

§16. 

The  next  few  weeks  were  for  Reuben  full  of  bitter, 
secret  humiliation.  He  might  show  a  proud  face  and  a 
straight  back  to  the  world,  but  his  heart  was  full  of 
miserable  madness.  It  was  not  so  much  his  son's 
disgrace  that  afflicted  him  as  the  attitude  of  people 
towards  it — the  Bardons  with  their  regrets  and  apolo- 
gies, the  small  fry  with  their  wonder  and  cheap  blame. 
What  filled  him  with  rage  and  disgust  beyond  all  else 
was  the  thought  that  some  people  imagined  that  Robert 
had  disgraced  Odiam — as  if  a  fool  like  Robert,  with  his 
tinpot  misdoings,  had  it  in  his  power  to  disgrace  a  farm 
like  Odiam  !  This  idea  maddened  him  at  times,  and  he 
went  to  absurd  lengths  to  show  men  how  little  he  cared. 
Yet  everywhere  »he  seemed  to  see  pity  leering  out  of 
eyes,  he  seemed  to  see  lips  inaudibly  forming  the  words  : 
"  poor  fellow  " — "  what  a  blow  for  his  schemes  !  " — 
"  how  about  the  farm  ? — now  he'll  lie  low  for  a  bit." 

This  was  all  the  worse  to  bear,  as  now,  for  the  first 
time,  he  began  seriously  to  dread  a  rival.  The  only 
farm  in  the  district  which  could  compete  with  Odiam 
was  Grandturzel,  but  that  had  been  held  back  by  the 
indifference  of  its  owner,  old  Realf.  Early  in  the  March 
of  '65  old  Realf  died,  and  was  succeeded  by  his  son, 
Henry  Realf,  whom  rumour  spoke  of  as  a  promising  and 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  173 

ambitious  young  man.  Skill  and  ambition  could  do  even 
more  with  Grandturzel  than  they  could  with  Odiam,  for 
the  former  had  the  freehold  of  forty  acres  of  Boarzell. 
Reuben  had  always  counted  on  being  able  to  buy  these 
some  day  from  old  Realf,  but  now  he  expected  his  son 
to  cling  to  them.  There  would  be  two  farms  fighting  for 
Boarzell,  and  Grandturzel  would  have  the  start. 

All  the  more  reason,  therefore,  that  Odiam  should 
stand  high  in  men's  respect.  Now,  of  all  times,  Reuben 
could  not  afford  to  be  looked  upon  with  contempt  or 
pity.  He  must  show  everyone  how  little  he  cared  about 
his  family  disgrace,  and  do  everything  he  could  to  bring 
himself  more  prominently  into  the  social  and  agri- 
cultural life  of  the  district. 

For  the  first  time  since  his  father's  death  he  gave 
suppers  at  Odiam  ;  once  more  he  spent  money  on 
French  wines  which  nobody  wanted  to  drink,  and  worked 
his  mother  and  daughters  to  tears  making  puddings  and 
pies.  He  bought  a  new  gig — a  smart  turnout,  with  a 
sleek,  well-bred  horse  between  the  shafts — and  he 
refused  to  let  Harry  fiddle  any  more  at  Fairs  and 
weddings  ;  it  was  prestige  rather  than  profit  that  he 
wanted  now. 

In  May  people  began  to  talk  of  a  general  election  ; 
the  death  of  Palmerston  and  the  defeat  of  Gladstone's 
Reform  Bill  made  it  inevitable.  Early  in  June  Parlia- 
ment was  dissolved,  and  Rye  electors  were  confronted 
with  the  postered  virtues  and  vices  of  Captain 
MacKinnon  (Radical)  and  Colonel  MacDonald  (Con- 
servative). 

Reuben  had  not  hitherto  had  much  truck  with 
politics.  He  had  played  the  part  of  a  convinced  and 
conscientious  Tory,  both  at  home  and  in  the  public- 
house  ;  and  every  evening  his  daughter  Tilly  had  read 
him  the  paper,  as  Naomi  had  used  to  do.  But  he  had 
never  done  more  at  an  election  than  record  his  vote,  he 
had  never  openly  identified  himself  with  the  political 


174  SUSSEX    GORSE 

life  of  the  district.  Now  it  struck  him  that  if  he  took 
a  prominent  part  in  this  election  it  would  do  much  to 
show  his  indiff erence  to  the  recent  catastrophe,  besides 
giving  him  a  certain  standing  as  a  politician,  and  thus 
bestowing  glory  and  dignity  on  Odiam. 

The  local  Tories  would  be  glad  enough  of  his  support, 
for  he  was  important,  if  not  popular,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  had  always  been  known  as  a  man  who  took  an 
intelligent  interest  in  his  country's  affairs. 

Not  that  Rye  elections  had  ever  been  much  con- 
cerned with  national  events.  Borough  had  always  been 
a  bigger  word  than  country  on  those  occasions.  It  was 
the  question  of  the  Harbour  rather  than  the  Ballot 
which  had  sent  up  Captain  Curteis  in  1832,  while  later 
contests  had  centred  round  the  navigation  of  the  Brede 
River,  the  new  Sluice  at  Scott's  Float,  or  the  Landgate 
clock.  Reuben,  however,  cared  little  for  these  petty 
town  affairs.  His  chief  concern  was  the  restoration  of 
the  tax  on  wheat,  and  he  also  favoured  the  taxing  of 
imported  malt  and  hops.  He  hated  and  dreaded 
Gladstone's  "  free  breakfast  table,"  which  he  felt  would 
mean  the  ruin  of  agriculture  in  England.  He  would  like 
to  concentrate  country  Toryism  into  an  organised 
opposition  of  Free  Trade,  and  his  wounded  pride  found 
balm  in  the  thought  of  founding  a  local  agricultural 
party  df  which  he  would  be  the  inspirer  and  head. 

§17- 

Reuben  began  to  attend  the  Tory  candidate's  meet- 
ings. Colonel  MacDonald  was  not  a  local  man,  any 
more  than  Captain  MacKinnon,  but  he  had  some 
property  in  the  neighbourhood,  down  on  the  marsh  by 
Becket's  House.  Like  the  other  candidate,  he  had  spent 
the  last  month  or  so  in  posting  himself  in  local  affairs,  and 
came  to  Rye  prepared,  as  he  said,  "  to  fight  the  election 
on  herrings  and  sprats." 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  175 

However,  at  his  first  meeting,  held  at  Guldef ord  Barn, 
he  was  surprised  to  find  a  strong  agricultural  element  in 
the  audience.  He  was  questioned  on  his  attitude 
towards  the  wheat  tax  and  towards  the  enfranchisement 
of  six-pound  householders.  The  fact  was  that  for  a 
fortnight  previously  Reuben  had  been  working  up 
public  opinion  in  the  Cocks,  and  also  in  the  London 
Trader,  the  Rye  tavern  he  used  on  market-days.  He 
had  managed  to  convince  the  two  bars  that  their 
salvation  lay  in  taxing  wheat,  malt,  and  hops,  and  in 
suppressing  with  a  heavy  hand  those  upstarts  whom 
Radical  sentimentalists  wanted  at  all  costs  to  educate 
and  enfranchise. 

Reuben  could  speak  convincingly,  and  his  extra- 
ordinary agricultural  success  gave  weight  to  his  words. 
If  not  liked,  he  was  admired  and  envied.  He  was  "  a 
fellow  who  knew  what  he  was  doing/'  and  could  be 
trusted  in  important  matters  of  welfare.  In  a  wrord,  he 
achieved  his  object  and  made  himself  head  of  an 
Agricultural  Party,  large  enough  to  be  of  importance 
to  either  candidate. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  had  overtures  from  Captain 
MacKinnon.  The  Captain  had  expected  an  easy  triumph  ; 
never  since  it  became  a  free  borough  had  Rye  sent  a 
Tory  to  Parliament.  Now  he  was  surprised  and  a  little 
warmed  to  see  signs  of  definite  Tory  enterprise,  banded 
under  one  of  the  most  important  and  successful  farmers 
in  the  district.  It  is  true  that  he  had  the  Bardons  on  his 
side,  but  the  Bardons  were  too  gentlemanly  to  be  useful. 
He  would  have  given  much  to  corrupt  Reuben,  but 
Flightshot,  which  held  the  only  bribe  that  could  have 
made  him  so  much  as  turn  his  head,  insisted  on  keeping 
pure.  He  tried  to  hold  his  own  by  appealing  to  the 
fishermen  and  sailors  against  the  agriculturists — but  as 
these  in  the  past  had  made  little  fortunes  by  smuggling 
grain,  they  joined  the  farmers  in  demanding  a  wheat- 
tax. 


176  SUSSEX    GORSE 

He  then  turned  to  the  small  householders  and  shop- 
keepers, dazzling  them  with  visions  of  Gladstone's  free 
breakfast  table — he  even  invited  the  more  prominent 
ones  to  an  untaxed  breakfast  in  the  Town  Hall ;  whereat 
the  Colonel,  at  Reuben's  instigation,  retaliated  with  a 
sumptuous  dinner,  which  he  said  would  be  within  the 
reach  of  every  farmer  when  a  moderate  wheat-tax  no 
longer  forced  him  to  undersell  his  harvests. 

Rye  platforms,  instead  of  being  confined  to  arguments 
on  herrings  and  sprats,  rang  unusually  with  matters  of 
national  import.  The  free  education  of  the  poor  was 
then  a  vital  question,  which  Reuben  and  his  party 
opposed  with  all  their  might.  Educated  labourers 
meant  higher  wages  and  a  loss  of  that  submissive  temper 
which  resulted  in  so  many  hours'  ill-paid  work.  Here 
the  Bardons  waxed  eloquent,  but  Backfield,  helped  by 
Ditch  of  Totease,  who  could  speak  quite  well  if  put 
through  his  paces  beforehand,  drew  such  a  picture  of 
the  ruin  which  would  attend  an  educated  democracy, 
that  the  voice  of  Flightshot,  always  too  carefully 
modulated  to  be  effective,  was  silenced. 

As  usual  the  local  printing-presses  worked  hard  over 
pamphlets  and  posters,  and  as  a  Rye  election  was 
nothing  if  not  personal,  Reuben  was  soon  enlightened 
as  to  the  Radical  opinion  of  him.  Posters  of  a  startlingly 
intimate  and  insulting  nature  began  to  appear  about 
the  town  ;  a  few  were  displayed  in  Peasmarsh,  and 
some  were  actually  found  on  the  walls  of  his  own  barns. 

"  Bribed,  stolen,  or  strayed,  an  Ugly  Gorilla,  answer- 
ing to  the  name  of  Ben.  The  animal  may  be  distin- 
guished by  his  filthy  habits,  associates  frequently  with 
swine  and  like  hogs,  delights  in  rolling  in  manure,  and  is 
often  to  be  found  in  Ditches.  Is  remarkable  for  his 
unnatural  cruelty  towards  his  own  young,  whom  he 
treats  with  shocking  unkindness.  The  animal  has 
likewise  a  propensity  for  boasting  and  lies.  The  Gorilla's 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  177 

temper  is  dreadfully  bad,  horribly  vicious,  and  fearfully 
vindictive.  A  reward  of  Five  Pounds  will  be  given  by 
Jothan  True  Blue,  chairman  of  the  Poor  Man's  Big 
Loaf  Association,  to  any  Blue  Lamb  who  may  find  this 
Odious  Creature,  as  his  one  object  while  at  large  is  to 
steal  the  Poor  Man's  Loaf.  He  would  also  take,  if  he 
could,  the  Poor  Man's  Vote,  and  confine  the  Poor  Man's 
Children  to  the  dirt  and  ignorance  in  which  he  himself 
wallows,  being  unable  to  read  or  write,  and  was  once 
heard  to  ask  the  Cringing  Colonel,  his  keeper,  what  was 
the  meaning  of  Tory  Principle  and  Purity  '  on  his 
election  banners.  We  too  would  like  to  know." 

Reuben  tore  the  posters  down  whenever  he  found 
them,  but  this  kind  of  attack  did  not  humiliate  him  as 
the  old  pitying  curiosity  had  done.  He  was  not  lowered 
in  his  own  esteem.  On  the  contrary,  he  enjoyed  the 
fame  which  Radical  hate  conferred  on  him.  There  was 
no  doubt  about  Odiam's  importance  now. 

The  Tories  were  not  to  be  beaten  in  invective,  and 
posted  Rye  with  enquiries  after  the  Rabid  Hybrid  or 
Crazy  Captain : 

"  The  habits  of  this  loathsome  creature  are  so  revolt- 
ing that  all  who  have  beheld  them  turn  from  them  in 
horror  and  disgust.  It  is  afflicted  with  a  dirty  disease 
called  Gladstone  Fever,  and  in  its  delirium  barks  horribly 
'  Educate  !  Educate  !  '" 

Much  more  was  written  in  this  strain  on  both  sides, 
and  Colonel  MacDonald  hired  a  band  of  youths  to  parade 
the  streets  singing : 

"  Conservatives,  'tis  all  serene — 

MacDonald  for  ever  !     Long  live  the  Queen  1  " 
or : 

"  The  people  of  Rye  now  they  all  seem  to  say 
That  MacDonald's  the  man  who  will  carry  the  sway. 
Triumphant  he'll  drive  old  MacKinnon  away — 
For  MacDonald's  the  man  for  the  people  1  " 


178  SUSSEX   GORSE 

Reuben  did  not  care  much  for  these  doings ;  they 
were,  he  thought,  a  mere  appeal  to  scum,  and  he  pre- 
ferred to  give  his  mind  to  weightier  things.  He  organised 
meetings  in  the  furthest  hamlets  of  the  district,  and 
managed  to  stir  up  the  interest  of  the  farmers  to  such  a 
pitch  that  it  soon  looked  as  if  the  Tory  candidate  would 
carry  all  before  him.  MacKinnon  could  not  open  his 
mouth  on  the  platform  without  shouts  of  :  "  Wheat  at 
seventy  shillings  a  quarter  !  "  or  "  What's  the  use  of  a 
big  loaf  if  we've  got  no  money  to  buy  it  with  ?  " 

The  Radicals  began  to  quake  for  their  victory. 
Speakers  were  sent  for  from  London,  but  could  not 
even  get  a  hearing,  owing  to  the  enemy's  supplies  of 
bad  eggs.  Meetings  were  everywhere  broken  up  in 
disorder,  and  the  Captain  was  reported  to  have  said 
that  the  Liberal  party  ought  to  offer  a  knighthood  to 
anyone  who  would  poison  Backfield's  beer. 

§18. 

So  time  passed  till  within  a  week  of  polling  day.  The 
feeling  in  the  district  grew  more  and  more  tense — no 
prominent  member  of  either  party  could  appear  in  Rye 
streets  without  being  insulted  by  somebody  on  the 
opposite  side.  Meetings  were  orgies  of  abuse  and 
violence,  but  whereas  the  Radical  meetings  were  in- 
variably broken  up  in  disorder  by  their  opponents, 
interruptions  at  Tory  meetings  resulted  only  in  the 
interrupters  themselves  being  kicked  out.  For  the  first 
time  it  looked  as  if  a  Conservative  would  be  returned 
for  Rye,  and  the  Colonel  knew  he  owed  his  success  to 
Backfield's  agricultural  party. 

Then  suddenly  the  unexpected  happened.  At  the 
end  of  one  of  Reuben's  most  successful  meetings  in  Iden 
Schoolhouse,  a  mild  sandy-haired  person,  whom  nobody 
knew,  rose  up  and  asked  meekly  whether  it  was  true 
that  the  Scott's  Float  toll-gate  was  on  Colonel  Mac- 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  179 

Donald's  estate,  and  if  so,  what  use  did  he  make  of  the 
tolls  ?  He  was  answered  by  being  flung  into  the  street, 
but  afterwards  the  Conservative  tenant  of  Loose  Farm 
on  the  Marsh  remarked  to  Reuben  that  it  was  "  a 
hemmed  ark'ard  question/' 

Reuben,  however,  absorbed  by  his  enthusiasm  for 
Protection  and  a  restricted  franchise,  scarcely  thought 
twice  about  the  toll-gate,  till  the  next  day  a  huge  poster 
appeared  all  over  the  district : 

"MACDONALD'S    GATE" 

"  Sing  ye  who  will  of  Love,  or  War,  or  Wine, 

Of  mantling  Cups,  Bright  Eyes,  or  deeds  of  Might — 
A  theme  unsung  by  other  harps  is  mine — 
I  sing  a  Gate — a  novel  subject  quite. 

O  Tolls  !  ye  do  afflict  us  all— a  bore  ! 

E'en  when  by  Law  imposed  on  evil  slight ! 
Who  has  not  loaded  ye  with  curses  sore 

When  in  this  Coat  of  Proof  enveloped  tight  ? 

Therefore  to  what  is  Law  I  say  '  content ' — 
But  for  a  Private  Man  to  raise  a  toll, 

To  stop  the  public,  tax  them,  circumvent, 
Moves  me  to  passion  I  can  scarce  control, 
Makes  boil  the  rushing  blood  and  thrills  my  very  soul." 

Hitherto  any  verse  that  had  been  written  in  the  con- 
troversy had  been  meant  for  street  singing,  and  turned 
out  in  the  less  serious  moments  of  politicians  who 
certainly  were  not  poets.  But  "  MacDonald's  Gate  " 
impressed  the  multitude  as  something  altogether 
different.  The  sounding  periods  and  the  number  of 
capitals  proclaimed  it  poetry  of  the  very  highest  order, 
and  its  prominent  position  throughout  the  town  soon 
resulted  in  the  collection  of  excited  groups  all  discussing 
the  Scott's  Float  toll-gate,  which  nobody  hitherto  had 
thought  much  about. 

The  Tories  were  a  little  disconcerted — the  toll-gate  did 
not  fit  into  their  campaign.  Tolls  had  always  been  un- 
popula"  in  the  neighbourhood,  even  though  Government- 


180  SUSSEX    GORSE 

owned,  and  it  was  catastrophic  that  the  enemy  should 
suddenly  have  swooped  down  on  the  Colonel's  private 
venture  and  rhymed  it  so  effectively. 

Of  course  a  counter-attack  was  made,  but  it  had  the 
drawback  of  being  made  in  prose,  none  of  the  Tory 
pamphleteers  feeling  equal  to  meeting  the  enemy  on  his 
own  ground.  Also  there  was  not  very  much  to  be  said, 
as  it  was  impossible  to  deny  the  Scott's  Float  toll-gate. 
So  the  writers  confined  themselves  to  sneering  at  the 
Radical  poet's  versification,  and  hinting  that  Captain 
MacKinnon  had  done  many  worse  things  than  own  a 
toll-gate,  and  that  all  the  money  the  Colonel  had  from 
his  went  to  the  upkeep  of  his  land,  a  statement  which 
deceived  nobody. 

The  next  day  a  fresh  poster  appeared,  printed  this 
time  in  flaming  red  letters  : 

"  If  you'd  know  what  the  Colonel  is,  pray  travel  over 
The  Sluice  at  Scott's  Float — and  then  drive  on  to  Dover — 
You'll  find  yourself  quickly  brought  up  by  a  Gate 
Where  a  Toll  they  will  charge  at  no  moderate  rate. 

Oh  why  is  a  Gate  stuck  across  at  this  Spot  ? 
Is  the  Colonel  so  poor  or  so  grasping — or  what  ? 
'Tis  that  he  may  gain  some  more  hundreds  this  way  in, 
To  swell  out  the  purse  where  his  Thousands  are  laying. 

Awake,  oh,  for  shame,  ye  electors  of  Rye  ! 
Let  the  banner  of  freedom  float  gaily  on  high, 
Throw  your  bonds  to  the  winds,  ye  Electors — for  know 
That  he  who'd  be  free  must  himself  strike  the  Blow." 

Thenceforward  the  whole  character  of  the  election 
was  changed.  The  Poor  Man's  Loaf  was  forgotten  as 
completely  as  the  wheat-tax  v/hich  should  make  the 
farmer  rich.  Six-pound  householders  became  as  un- 
interesting as  anybody  else  who  had  not  a  vote.  Nobody 
cared  a  damn  whether  the  poor  were  educated  at  the 
nation's  expense  or  not.  The  conflict  raged  blindly, 
furiously,  degradingly  round  the  Scott's  Float  toll-gate. 

No  one  thought  or  spoke  or  wrote  of  anything  else. 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  181 

If  at  meetings  Reuben  tried  to  introduce  Protection  or 
the  Franchise,  he  was  silenced  even  by  his  own  party. 
The  Scott's  Float  toll-gate  became  as  important  as  the 
Sluice  or  the  Brede  River  or  the  Landgate  Clock  had 
been  in  other  elections,  and  nothing,  no  matter  of  what 
national  importance,  could  stand  against  it. 

Reuben  cursed  the  base  trucksters  who  had  brought 
it  forward,  and  he  cursed  the  scummy  versifier  who  was 
its  laureate — whose  verses  appeared  daily  on  six-foot 
hoardings,  and  were  sung  by  drunken  Radicals  to  drown 
his  speeches.  No  one  knew  who  the  Radical  poet  was, 
for  his  party  kept  him  a  mystery,  fearful,  no  doubt,  lest 
he  should  be  bribed  by  the  other  side.  Some  said  that 
he  was  a  London  journalist,  sent  down  in  despair  by 
the  Liberals  at  head-quarters.  If  so  they  must  have 
congratulated  themselves  on  their  forlorn  hope,  for  the 
tide  of  events  changed  completely. 

The  worst  of  that  toll-gate  was  that  the  Conservatives 
could  never  explain  it  away.  They  printed  posters,  they 
printed  handbills,  they  attempted  verse,  they  made 
speeches,  they  protested  their  disinterestedness,  they 
even  tried  to  represent  the  abomination  as  a  philan- 
thropic concern,  but  all  their  efforts  failed.  They 
quickly  began  to  lose  ground.  It  was  the  Conservative 
instead  of  the  Liberal  meetings  that  were  broken  up  in 
disorder.  Colonel  MacDonald  was  howled  down,  and 
Reuben  came  home  every  evening  his  clothes  spattered 
with  rotten  eggs. 

§19- 

Polling  day  broke  gloomily  on  Rye  Tories.  The 
country  voters  were  brought  into  town  at  the  Candidates' 
expense,  having  received  according  to  custom  printed 
notices  that  the  Colonel,  or  the  Captain,  "  would  en- 
deavour to  ensure  to  every  elector  access  to  the  poll 
free  from  every  sort  of  insult." 

In  Rye  bells  were  ringing  and  bands  were  playing, 


182  SUSSEX    GORSE 

and  the  town  looked  quite  strange  with  huge  crowds 
surging  through  its  grass-grown  streets,  which  were, 
moreover,  blocked  with  every  kind  of  trap,  gig,  cart,  and 
wain.  About  three  hundred  special  constables  had  been 
enrolled  for  the  occasion,  and  it  was  likely  that  they 
would  be  needed,  for  all  the  public  -  houses  had  been 
thrown  open  by  the  candidates. 

In  the  market-place,  where  the  hustings  stood,  a  dense 
throng  was  packing  itself,  jostling  and  shoving,  and — 
Reuben  saw  to  his  dismay  as  he  drove  up  to  the  London 
Trader — showing  strong  Radical  tendencies.  Several 
Conservative  banners  waved  from  the  windows  of  the 
public-house — "  MacDonald  the  Farmer's  Friend  " — 
"  MacDonald  and  Protection  " — "  Wheat  at  seventy 
shillings  a  quarter  " — "  Ratepayers  !  beware  of  Radical 
pickpockets."  These  had  all  been  prepared  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  contest.  The  Radical  banners  bore  but  one 
device — "  The  Scott's  Float  Toll-gate."  It  waved 
everywhere,  and  any  other  banner  which  appeared  in 
the  streets  was  immediately  seized  and  broken,  the 
bearer  being  made  to  suffer  so  horribly  for  his  con- 
victions, that  soon  nobody  could  be  found  to  carry  one. 

Every  now  and  then  the  crowd  would  break  into  the 
latest  rhymings  of  MacKinnon's  poet : 

"  Who  fill  their  pockets  at  Scott's  Float, 
And  on  their  private  Toll-gate  doat, 
While  o'er  our  hard-earned  pence  they  gloat  ? 
The  Tories." 

Reuben  felt  his  heart  sink,  and  his  beer  nearly  choked 
him.  Soon  a  vast  struggle  was  raging  round  the  hust- 
ings, as  the  voters  fought  their  way  through  fists  and 
sticks,  often  emerging — especially  the  Conservatives — 
with  their  clothes  half  torn  off  their  backs  and  quite 
ruined  by  garbage.  The  special  constables  were  useless, 
for  their  own  feelings  betrayed  them,  and  unluckily 
even  in  their  ranks  the  Radicals  predominated.  The 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  183 

state  of  the  poll  at  ten-thirty  was  twenty-seven  for 
Captain  MacKinnon  and  only  eleven  for  Colonel  Mac- 
Donald. 

Speeches  were  made  from  time  to  time,  but  were  lost 
in  the  general  hubbub.  One  of  the  local  butchers  had 
delivered  over  his  entire  stock  of  entrails,  skin  and  hoof 
cuttings,  and  old  blood-puddings  to  the  Radical  cause, 
and  Conservative  speakers  were  soon  a  sight  to  behold. 
When  Reuben  stood  up  his  voice  was  drowned  in  shouts 
of  "  Ben  the  Gorilla  !  Stop  the  dirty  animal !  "  while 
a  bleeding  sheep's  head  caught  him  full  on  the  chest. 
Too  proud  to  take  his  dismissal  from  the  mob,  he  spoke 
unheard  for  five  minutes,  at  the  end  of  which  he  was 
silenced  by  half  a  brick,  which  hit  his  temple  and 
stunned  him  sufficiently  for  Ditch  and  MacDonald  to  pull 
him  away. 

At  twelve  the  poll  stood  at  a  hundred  and  one  for  the 
Captain  and  sixty-five  for  the  Colonel.  The  Tories  were 
getting  desperate — they  threw  into  the  crowd  hand- 
bills wet  from  the  printers,  declaring  that  MacDonald's 
toll-gate  should  not  stand  an  hour  after  he  was  elected, 
But  the  crowd  only  sang  derisively  : 

"  Who  fill  their  pockets  at  Scott's  Float, 
And  on  their  private  Toll-gate  doat, 
While  o'er  our  hard-earned  pence  they  gloat  ? 
The  Tories." 

At  three  o'clock  the  poll  stood  at  two  hundred  and 
twelve  and  eighty-three.  Then  came  the  close — Captain 
MacKinnon  elected  by  a  majority  of  sixty-nine. 

Loud  cheers  rose  up  from  the  struggling,  drunken 
mass  in  the  market-place. 

"  Hurray  for  MacKinnon! — Down  with  the  Toll- 
keepers  !  " 

In  the  Court-house  the  beaten  Conservatives  heard  the 
shouts  and  turned  fiercely — on  one  another. 

"  It's  that  hemmed  geate  of  yourn — lost  every- 
thing !  "  cried  Reuben. 


184  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  By  God,  it's  not  my  gate — it's  your  wheat." 

"  My  wheat  ! — wot  d'you  mean,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that,  thanks  to  you,  we  wasted  about  three 
weeks  talking  to  those  damned  fools  about  a  matter 
they  don't  care  twopence  about.  You  worked  up  a  false 
interest,  and  the  result  is,  that  when  anything  that  really 
touches  them  is  brought  forward,  the  whole  campaign 
drops  to  pieces." 

"  It's  unaccountable  easy  to  put  the  blame  on  me, 
when  it's  your  hemmed  geate -" 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  it's  your  damned  wheat " 

"  And  your  damned  son  !  "  furiously  cried  Ditch  of 
Totease. 

"  My  son  !  " — Reuben  swung  round  on  the  men  who 
had  once  rallied  under  his  leadership,  but  now  stood 
scowling  at  him  and  muttering  to  themselves.  "My 
son  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Coalbran  of  Doozes,  "  you  know  as 
well  as  us  as  how  it  wur  your  Albert  wrote  them  verses 
about  the  geate,  wot  have  bust  up  everything." 

"  You're  a  liar  !  "  cried  Reuben. 

"  You  dare  miscall  me,"  and  the  two  men,  mad  with 
private  hate  and  public  humiliation,  flew  at  each  other's 
throats. 

Ditch  and  the  Colonel  pulled  them  apart. 

"  Hang  it  all,  Coalbran,  we  don't  know  it's  his  son. 
But  we  do  know  it's  his  wheat.  Good  God,  sir — if  only 
you'd  kept  your  confounded  self  out  of  politics " 

Reuben  olid  not  wait  to  hear  more.  He  pushed  his 
way  out  of  the  room  and  downstairs  to  where  his  trap 
was  waiting.  The  crowd  surged  round  him  as  he 
climbed  into  it.  An  egg  burst  against  his  ear,  and  the 
filthy  yolk  ran  down  his  cheek  to  mingle  with  the 
spatter  of  blood  on  his  neck  and  shirt-front. 

"  Ben  the  Gorilla  !  Ben  the  Gorilla  !  Give  him  tar 
and  feathers  !  " 

Reuben  struck  his  horse  with  the  whip,  and  the 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  185 

animal  sprang  forward.  A  man  who  had  been  trying  to 
climb  into  the  gig,  fell  off,  and  was  nearly  trampled  on. 
Reuben  flogged  his  way  through  the  pack,  a  shower  of 
missiles  hurtling  round  him,  while  his  ears  burned  with 
the  abuse  which  had  once  been  his  badge  of  pride,  but 
now  in  the  hour  of  defeat  smote  him  with  a  sick  sense 
of  impotence  and  degradation.  "  Ben  the  Gorilla ! 
Ben  the  Gorilla !  " 

He  was  free  of  them  at  last,  galloping  down  the  Land- 
gate  hill  towards  Rye  Foreign. 

"  I'm  hemmed,"  he  muttered,  grinding  his  teeth,  "  if 
I  ever  touch  their  dirty  politics  again — from  this  day 
forward — so  help  me  God  !  " 

§20. 

On  reaching  Odiam,  Reuben  did  not  go  into  the 
kitchen  where  his  children  were  gathered,  expectant  and 
curious.  He  went  straight  upstairs.  Caro,  who  caught 
a  glimpse  of  him  in  the  passage,  ran  away  in  terror — he 
looked  so  dreadful,  his  face  all  dabbled  with  blood  and 
yolk  of  egg. 

He  went  up  to  Albert's  room.  He  had  furiously  given 
Ditch  the  lie  in  the  Courthouse,  but  he  had  never 
trusted  his  son,  and  the  accusation  had  poured  over  him 
a  flood  of  shame  which  could  be  quelled  only  by  its  proof 
or  its  refutation.  If  Albert's  guilt  were  proved — which 
Reuben,  now  bathing  in  this  luminous  shame,  saw  was 
quite  probable — then  he  knew  what  to  do  to  clean  the 
smirch  off  Odiam  ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  his  innocence 
were  established,  then  he  would  punish  those  swine  who 
threw  mud  at  him  and  his  farm. 

Albert  slept  in  one  of  the  attics  with  Jemmy  and  Pete, 
Reuben  had  no  intention  of  meeting  him  till  he  had 
something  to  confront  him  with,  for  he  was  pretty  sure 
that  the  boy  would  lie  to  him.  He  began  turning  the 
room  topsy-turvy,  and  had  soon  found  in  a  drawer  a 


186  SUSSEX    GORSE 

heap  of  papers  scrawled  over  with  writing.  It  was 
unlucky  that  he  could  not  read,  for  he  could  not  even 
tell  whether  the  handwriting  were  Albert's — these  might 
be  some  letters  he  had  received.  Suddenly,  however, 
a  word  caught  his  eye  which  he  had  seen  a  hundred  times 
on  hoardings,  letters,  bills,  and  other  documents — 
MacKinnon.  He  could  trace  it  out  quite  clearly.  What 
had  Albert  to  do  with  MacKinnon  ?  Reuben  clenched 
the  papers  together  in  his  fist,  and  went  downstairs  to 
the  kitchen. 

Albert  was  not  there.  All  the  better  !  Reuben  strode 
up  to  Tilly,  unaware  of  how  terrible  he  looked  with  the 
traces  of  his  battle  not  yet  washed  from  his  face,  and 
banged  the  papers  down  in  front  of  her. 

11  Wot's  all  this  ?  " 

Tilly  was  frightened. 

"  It's — it's  only  poetry,  faather." 

"  Read  me  some  of  it." 

"  It's  only  Albert's." 

"  That's  why  I  want  to  hear  wot  it's  about.  You 
read  it." 

Tilly  began  to  read  in  a  faltering  voice  : 

"  If  you'd  know  what  the  Colonel  is,  pray  travel  over 
The  Sluice  at  Scott's  Float — and  then  drive  on  to  Dover — 
You'll  find  yourself  quickly  brought  up  by  a  Gate  .  .  ." 

Reuben  struck  his  fist  on  the  table,  and  she  dropped 
the  paper  with  a  little  cry. 

"  It's  true,  then  !    Oh  Lard  !   it's  true  !  " 

"  Wot,  faather  ?  " 

"  Them's  Albert's  verses  right  enough  ?  " 

"  Yes,  faather,  but " 

"  Fetch  him  here." 

Tilly  was  more  frightened  than  ever.  She  had  never 
heard  anything  about  the  great  Gate  controversy,  and 
could  not  understand  why  Reuben  was  so  angry  with 
Albert.  The  verses  seemed  to  her  quite  harmless,  they 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  187 

were  not  even  about  love.  However,  she  could  not 
disobey  her  father,  so  she  ran  and  fetched  Albert  out  of 
the  corn-chamber,  begging  him  to  be  careful  what  he 
said,  "  fur  faather's  unaccountable  vrothered  to-night 
about  something/' 

"  How  did  the  Election  go  ?  " 

"  I  never  asked." 

"  Oh,  you  gals  !  Well,  I  expect  that's  wot's  the 
matter.  The  Liberal's  got  in." 

"  But  why  should  that  maake  faather  angry  wud 
you  ?  " 

Albert  stuck  out  his  chest  and  looked  important,  as  he 
invariably  did  before  an  encounter  with  Reuben,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  these  always  ended  most  ingloriously  as 
far  as  he  was  concerned. 

"  He's  bin  reading  some  poetry  of  yours,  Bertie," 
continued  his  sister,  "  and  he's  just  about  dreadful,  all 
his  cloathes  tore  about,  and  a  nasty  mess  of  blood  and 
yaller  stuff  on  his  face." 

Albert  suddenly  began  to  look  uneasy. 

4 'Oh  Lard!  perhaps  I'd  better  bolt  fur  it.— No, 
I'll  square  him  out.  You'll  stand  by  me,  Tilly  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  doan't  maake  him  angry — he  might  beat 

you." 

Bertie's  pride  was  wounded  by  this  suggestion,  which 
was,  however,  soundly  based  on  precedent,  and  he 
entered  the  kitchen  with  something  very  like  a  swagger. 

Reuben  was  standing  by  the  table,  erect,  and  some- 
how dignified  in  spite  of  the  mess  he  was  in. 

"  Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "  well— MacKinnon's  hound !  " 

Albert  saw  the  heap  of  scribbled  paper  on  the  table, 
and  blenched. 

Reuben  walked  up  to  him,  took  him  by  the  shoulders, 
and  shook  him  as  a  dog  might  shake  a  rabbit. 

"  You  hemmed,  scummy,  lousy  Radical !  " 

Albert  could  not  speak,  for  he  felt  as  if  his  brains  and 
teeth  were  rattling  about  inside  his  head.  The  rest  of 


188  SUSSEX    GORSE 

the  family  hunched  together  by  the  door,  the  boys 
gaping  idiotically,  the  girls  in  tears. 

"  Well,  wotVe  you  got  to  say  fur  yourself  before  I 
kick  you  round  the  table  ?  " 

"  I'll  write  wot  I  please,  surelye,"  growled  Albert, 
trying  rather  unsuccessfully  to  resume  his  swagger. 

"  Oh,  will  you  !  Well,  there'll  be  naun  to  prevent  you 
when  you're  out  of  this  house — and  out  you  go  to-night ; 
I'll  have  no  Radical  hogs  on  my  farm.  I'm  shut  of 
you !  " 

"  Faather  !  "  cried  Tilly. 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  Does  anyone  here  think  I'm 
going  to  have  a  Radical  fur  my  son  ? — and  a  tedious 
lying  traitor,  too,  wot  helps  his  faather's  enemies,  and 
busts  up  the  purtiest  election  that  wur  ever  fought  at 
Rye.  Do  you  say  you  didn't  write  those  lousy  verses 
wot  have  lost  us  everything  ?  " 

"  No — I  doan't  say  it.  I  did  write  'em.  But  it's  all 
your  fault  that  I  did — so  you've  no  right  to  miscall  me." 

"  My  iault !  " — Reuben's  jaw  dropped  as  he  faced  the 
upstart. 

"  Yes.  You've  alms  treated  me  lik  a  dog,  and 
laughed  at  my  writing  and  all  I  wanted  to  do.  Then 
chaps  came  along  as  didn't  laugh,  and  promised  me  all 
sorts  o'  things  if  I'd  write  fur  them." 

"  Wot  sort  o'  things  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Hedges,  the  Liberal  agent,  promised  that  if  I'd 
write  fur  him,  he'd  git  me  work  on  a  London  paper,  and 
I  could  maake  my  fortune  and  be  free  of  all  this." 

"  All  wot  ?  " 

"  Odiam  !  "  shrieked  Albert. 

Reuben  faced  him  with  straight  lips  and  dilated 
nostrils  ;  the  boy  was  now  quivering  with  passion, 
hatred  seemed  to  have  purged  him  of  terror. 

"  Yes — Odiam  I  "  he  continued,  clenching  his  fists — 
"  that  blasted  farm  of  yourn  wot's  the  curse  of  us  all. 
Here  we're  made  to  work,  and  never  given  a  penny  fur 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  189 

our  labour — we're  treated  worse  than  the  lowest  farm- 
hands, like  dogs,  we  are.  Robert  stole  money  to  git 
away,  and  can  you  wonder  that  when  I  see  my  chance 
I  should  taake  it.  I'm  no  Radical — I  doan't  care  one 
way  or  t'other — but  when  the  Radicals  offered  me 
money  to  write  verses  fur  'em,  I  wurn't  going  to  say 
'no.'  They  promised  to  maake  my  fortun,  and  save  me 
from  you  and  your  old  farm,  which  I  wish  was  in  hell." 

"  Stop  your  ranting  and  tell  me  how  the  hogs  got  you." 

"  I  met  Mr.  Hedges  at  the  pub " 

"  Wur  it  you  or  him  wot  thought  of  the  Scott's  Float 
Geate  ?  " 

"  I  heard  of  it  from  old  Pitcher  down  at  Loose,  and  I 
toald  Hedges.  I  justabout " 

A  terrific  blow  from  Reuben  cut  him  short. 


§21. 

The  rest  of  the  family  had  gone  to  bed,  though 
scarcely  to  sleep.  Reuben  had  washed  the  blood  and 
filth  off  his  face,  and  had  stripped  to  his  shirt,  but  he  felt 
too  sick  and  restless  to  lie  down.  He  sat  at  his  window, 
staring  out  into  the  dark  gulf  of  the  night. 

His  skin  burned,  his  pulses  throbbed,  in  his  head  was  a 
buzzing  and  humming. 

"  Wished  my  farm  wur  in  hell,  dud  he  ?  He  cursed 
my  farm,  dud  he  ?  The  young  whelp  !  " 

He  peered  out  into  the  blackness.  Was  that  some- 
thing he  saw  moving  against  the  sky  on  the  shoulder  of 
Boarzell  ?  It  was  too  dark  for  him  to  make  sure.  Where 
had  Albert  gone  ?  To  his  Radical  friends,  of  course. 
They  had  offered  to  make  his  fortune — well,  let  them 
!  make  it,  and  durn  them  ! 

Two  sons  were  gone  now.  Life  was  hitting  him  hard. 
But  he  would  have  no  traitors  in  his  camp.  Albert  was 
his  son  no  longer. 

He  bowed  his  head  on  the  sill,  and  his  throbbing  brain 


190  SUSSEX    GORSE 

revisualised  the  whole  horrible  day.  He  owed  the 
humiliation  and  defeat  of  it  all  to  Albert,  who  for  the 
sake  of  money  and  a  milk-and-water  career,  had  betrayed 
Odiam's  glory,  and  foully  smirched  its  name. 

There  was  no  denying  it — he  had  been  basely  dealt 
with  by  his  elder  children.  Robert  was  in  prison, 
Albert  existed  no  longer  except  in  the  memory  of  a 
bitter  disgrace,  Richard  was  contemptuous,  and,  his 
father  suspected,  up  to  nothing  good.  .  .  .  And  he  had 
looked  to  them  all  to  stand  and  fight  by  his  side,  to  feel 
his  ambition,  and  share  his  conquest.  Pete  was  a  good 
lad,  but  what  was  one  where  there  should  have  been 
four  ?  He  could  not  deny  it — his  elder  children  had 
failed  him. 

Something  almost  like  a  sob  shook  Reuben.  Then, 
ashamed  of  his  weakness,  he  raised  his  head,  and  saw 
that  behind  Boarzell  the  night  had  lifted,  and  a  cowslip 
paleness  was  creeping  into  the  sky.  The  great  dark  hump 
of  the  Moor  showed  clearly  against  it  with  its  tuft  of  firs. 
A  faint  thrill  stole  through  Reuben's  tired  limbs.  Boar- 
zell was  always  there  to  be  loved  and  fought  for,  even  if 
he  had  no  heart  or  arm  but  his  own.  Gradually  hope 
stirred  as  the  dawn  crept  among  the  clouds.  The  wind 
came  rustling  and  whiffling  to  him  over  the  heather, 
bringing  him  the  rich  damp  smell  of  the  earth  he  loved. 

Oh,  Boarzell,  Boarzell !  ...  his  love,  his  dream,  his 
promised  land,  lying  there  in  the  cold  white  hope  of 
morning  !  No  degenerate  sons  could  rob  him  of  his 
Moor,  though  they  might  leave  him  terribly  alone  on  it. 
After  all,  better  be  alone  with  his  ambition,  than  share  it 
with  their  defiling  thoughts,  their  sordid,  humdrum, 
milk-and-water  schemes.  In  future  he  would  try  no 
more  to  interest  his  children  in  Boarzell.  He  had  tried 
to  thrill  Robert  and  Albert  and  Richard  with  his 
glorious  enterprise,  and  they  had  all  forsaken  him — 
one  for  love,  one  for  fame,  and  one  for  some  still  unknown 
unworthiness.  He  would  not  trouble  about  the  others  ; 


THE    ELDER    CHILDREN  191 

they  should  serve  him  for  no  other  reason  but  that  he 
was  a  hard  master.  He  had  been  hard  with  the  three 
boys,  but  he  had  been  exciting  and  confiding  too.  Now 
he  would  drop  all  that.  He  would  cease  to  look  for 
comradeship  in  his  children,  as  years  ago  he  had  ceased 
to  look  for  it  in  his  wife.  It  would  be  enough  if  they 
were  just  slaves  working  under  his  whip.  He  had  been 
a  fool  to  expect  sympathy.  .  .  .  Boarzell,  looming 
blacker  and  blacker  against  the  glowing  pinks  and 
purples  of  the  sky,  seemed  to  mock  at  sympathy  and  its 
cheap  colours,  seemed  to  bid  him  Be  Hard,  Be  Strong, 
Be  Remorseless — Be  Alone. 


BOOK  IV 
TREACHERIES 


REUBEN'S  domestic  catastrophes  might  be 
summed  up  in  the  statement  that  he  had  lost 
two  farm  hands.  It  is  true  that  Albert  had 
never  been  much  good  —  if  he  had  his  father  would 
probably  not  have  turned  him  away  —  but  he  had  been 
better  than  nothing,  and  now  Reuben  would  have  to 
hire  a  substitute.  One  would  be  enough,  for  Jemmy 
and  George  were  now  able  to  do  a  man's  full  work  each. 
So  another  hand  was  engaged  for  Odiam  —  Piper,  a 
melancholy,  lean-jowled  cowman  from  Moor's  Cottage. 
The  family  was  forbidden  to  speak  of  the  absent 
sons.  No  one  ever  wrote  to  Robert  in  Lewes  gaol  or  to 
Albert  living  on  London's  cruel  tender-mercies.  The 
shame  of  them  was  to  be  starved  by  silence.  Soon 
most  of  the  children  had  forgotten  them,  and  they  lived 
solely  in  Tilly's  unhappy  thoughts  or  Richard's  angry 
ones,  or  in  certain  bitter  memories  of  their  father's, 
sternly  fought. 

Reuben  had  learnt  his  first  lesson  from  experience. 
Quietly  but  decidedly  he  altered  his  conduct.  He  no 
longer  made  the  slightest  appeal  to  his  family's  enter- 
prise or  ambition,  he  no  longer  interrupted  his  chidings 
with  those  pathetic  calls  to  their  enthusiasm  which  had 
mystified  or  irritated  them  in  times  past.  On  the  other 
hand  he  was  twice  as  hard,  twice  as  fierce,  twice  as  ruth- 
less and  masterful  as  he  had  ever  been. 

192 


TREACHERIES  193 

Old  Mrs.  Backfield  was  getting  very  decrepit.  She 
could  not  walk  without  a  stick,  and  her  knotted  hands 
were  of  little  use  either  in  the  kitchen  or  the  dairy. 
Reuben  was  anxious  to  avoid  engaging  anyone  to  help 
her,  yet  the  developments  of  her  sphere  made  such 
help  most  necessary.  Odiam  now  supplied  most  of  the 
neighbouring  gentry  with  milk,  butter,  and  eggs  ;  the 
poultry-yard  had  grown  enormously  since  it  had  been  a 
mere  by-way  of  Mrs.  Backfield's  labours,  and  she  and 
the  girls  also  had  charge  of  the  young  calves  and  pigs, 
which  needed  constant  attention,  and  meant  a  great 
deal  of  hard  work.  Besides  this,  there  was  all  the 
housework  to  do,  sweeping,  dusting,  cooking,  baking, 
and  mending  and  washing  for  the  males. 

It  occurred  to  Reuben  that  Harry  might  be  of  some 
use  to  the  women.  Since  he  had  given  up  riddling  he 
was  entirely  on  the  wrong  side  of  Odiam's  accounts  ;  it 
would  do  much  to  justify  his  existence  if  he  could  help  a 
little  in  the  house  and  thus  save  engaging  extra  labour. 

Unfortunately  Harry's  ideas  of  work  were  fantastic, 
and  he  was,  besides,  hindered  by  his  blindness.  Any 
use  he  could  be  put  to  was  more  than  balanced  by  the 
number  of  things  he  broke.  His  madness  had  of  late 
developed  both  a  terrible  and  an  irritating  side.  He 
was  sometimes  consumed  by  the  idea  that  the  house 
was  burning,  and  had  on  one  or  two  occasions  scared 
the  family  by  jumping  out  of  bed  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  and  running  about  the  passages  shouting — "  The 
house  is  afire  !  the  house  is  afire  !  Oh,  God  save  us 
all !  "  After  he  had  done  this  once  or  twice,  young 
Piper  was  made  to  sleep  in  his  room,  but  even  so  he  was 
often  visited  by  his  terrors  during  the  day,  and  would 
interrupt  work  or  meals  with  shrieks  of — "  The  house 
is  afire  !  Oh,  wot  shall  we  do  !  The  house  is  afire,  and 
the  children  are  burning." 

Another  habit  of  his,  less  alarming,  but  far  more 
annoying,  was  to  repeat  some  chance  word  or  sentence 


194  SUSSEX   GORSE 

over  and  over  again  for  hours.  If  his  mother  said 
"  Take  these  plates  into  the  kitchen,  Harry/'  he  would 
spend  the  rest  of  the  day  murmuring,  "  Take  these 
plates  into  the  kitchen,  Harry/'  till  those  about  him 
were  driven  nearly  as  mad  as  he. 

It  was  soon  found  that  he  hindered  rather  than  helped 
the  work,  so  Reuben  had  to  cast  about  for  fresh  plans. 
He  felt  utterly  ruthless  now,  and  was  resolved  to  make 
his  daughters  manage  the  house  alone.  He  redis- 
tributed the  labour,  and  by  handing  over  the  poultry, 
calves,  and  pigs  to  Beatup,  and  taking  some  of  his  work 
upon  his  own  shoulders,  made  it  physically  possible  for 
Caro  and  Tilly  to  run  the  house  and  dairy  with  the 
feeble  help  of  old  Mrs.  Backfield.  He  told  them  that  he 
could  not  afford  to  engage  a  woman,  and  that  they  must 
do  without  her — making  no  appeal  to  their  interest  or 
ambition  as  he  might  have  done  six  months  ago. 

Caro  and  Tilly  did  not  rebel.  Somehow  or  other 
their  young  backs  did  not  break  under  the  load  of 
household  toil,  nor,  more  strangely,  did  their  young 
hearts,  in  the  loneliness  of  their  hard,  uncared-for  lives. 

Tilly  was  now  nearly  eighteen.  She  had  always  been 
like  her  mother,  but  as  she  grew  older  the  likeness 
became  more  and  more  pronounced,  till  sometimes  it 
seemed  to  Reuben  as  if  it  were  Naomi  herself  with  her 
milky  skin  and  fleeting  rose-bloom  who  sat  at  his  table 
and  moved  about  his  house.  The  only  difference  lay 
in  a  certain  prominence  of  the  chin  which  gave  her  an 
air  of  decision  that  Naomi  had  lacked.  Not  that  Tilly 
was  ever  anything  but  docile,  but  occasionally  Reuben 
felt  that  some  time  or  other  she  might  take  her  stand — 
a  fear  which  had  never  troubled  him  with  Naomi. 

Caro  was  not  like  her  sister ;  she  was  of  larger  build, 
yet  thinner,  and  much  darker,  inheriting  her  father's 
swarthy  skin  and  thick  black  hair.  She  did  not  give 
Reuben  the  same  anxiety  as  Tilly — she  was  heavy  and 
coltish,  and,  he  felt,  would  not  appeal  to  men.  But 


TREACHERIES  195 

Tilly,  especially  when  the  summer  heats  had  melted 
together  the  little  freckles  over  her  nose,  struck  his 
masculine  eye  in  a  way  that  made  him  half  proud,  half 
fearful. 

No  young  men  ever  visited  Odiam.  The  young 
Ditches,  the  young  Vennals,  or  Coalbrans,  or  Ginners, 
who  had  business  to  transact  with  Backfield,  did  so  only 
at  a  safe  distance.  Reuben  could  not  as  yet  afford  to 
lose  his  housemaids.  Some  day,  he  told  himself,  he 
would  see  that  the  girls  married  to  the  honour  of  his 
farm,  but  at  present  he  could  not  do  without  them. 

They  did  not  murmur,  for  they  had  known  no  different 
life.  They  had  never,  like  other  girls,  wandered  with 
bevies  of  young  people  through  the  lanes  at  dusk,  or 
felt  in  the  twilight  a  man's  hand  grope  for  theirs.  They 
had  not  had  suitors  to  visit  them  on  Sundays,  to  sit 
very  stiff  and  straight  in  the  parlour,  and  pass  decorous 
remarks  about  the  weather  all  the  while  their  eyes  were 
eating  up  a  little  figure  from  toe  to  hair. 

Nevertheless  when  they  worked  side  by  side  in  the 
kitchen  or  dairy,  skimming  milk,  churning  butter, 
watching  puddings  bubble  and  steam,  or  when  they 
made  Reuben's  great  bed  together,  they  had  queer, 
half-shy,  half-intimate  talks  —  in  which  their  heads 
came  very  close  and  their  voices  sank  very  low,  and  an 
eavesdropper  might  have  often  caught  the  word  "  lover," 
uttered  mysteriously  and  sometimes  with  an  odd  little 
sigh. 

§2. 

That  spring  the  news  flew  round  from  inn  to  inn  and 
farm  to  farm  that  Realf  of  Grandturzel  had  bought  a 
shire  stallion,  and  meant  to  start  horse-breeding.  This 
was  a  terrible  shock  to  Reuben,  for  not  only  was  horse- 
breeding  extremely  profitable  to  those  who  could  afford 
it,  but  it  conferred  immeasurable  honour.  It  seemed 
now  as  if  Odiam  were  seriously  threatened.  If  Realf 


196  SUSSEX    GORSE 

prospered  at  his  business  he  could  afford  to  fight  Reuben 
for  Boarzell. 

As  a  man  in  love  will  sometimes  see  in  every  other 
man  a  plotter  for  his  beloved,  and  would  never  believe 
it  if  he  were  told  that  he  alone  sees  charm  in  her  and 
that  to  others  she  is  undesirable,  so  Reuben  could  not 
conceive  ambition  apart  from  the  rugged,  tough,  un- 
fruitful Boarzell,  whom  no  man  desired  but  he.  He  at 
once  started  negotiations  for  buying  another  twenty 
acres,  though  at  present  he  could  ill  afford  it,  owing  to 
the  expenses  involved  by  his  family  misfortunes  and  his 
new  mania  for  prestige. 

He  watched  Grandturzel's  developments  with  a 
stern  and  anxious  eye,  and  kept  pace  with  them  as  well 
as  he  could.  The  farm  consisted  of  about  fifty-five 
acres  of  grass  and  tilth,  apart  from  the  forty  acres  of 
Boarzell,  which  neither  Realf  nor  his  father  had  ever 
attempted  to  cultivate,  using  them  merely  for  fuel  and 
timber,  or  as  pasturage  for  the  ewes  when  their  lambs 
were  taken  from  them.  Old  Realf  had  allowed  the  place 
to  acquire  a  dilapidated  rakish  look,  but  his  son  at  once 
began  to  smarten  it  up.  He  tarred  the  two  oast-houses 
till  they  shone  blue  with  the  reflected  sky,  he  painted  his 
barn  doors  green,  and  re-roofed  the  Dutch  Barn  with 
scarlet  tiles  that  could  be  seen  all  the  way  from  Tiffenden 
Hill.  He  enriched  his  poultry-yard  with  a  rare  strain  of 
Orpington,  and  was  the  only  farmer  in  the  district 
besides  Reuben  to  do  his  reaping  and  hay-making  by 
machinery. 

Realf  was  about  twenty-five,  a  tall,  well-set-up 
young  fellow,  with  certain  elegancies  about  him.  In 
business  he  was  of  a  simple,  open  temperament,  genuinely 
proud  of  his  farm,  and  naive  enough  to  boast  of  its 
progress  to  Backfield  himself. 

Indeed  he  was  so  naive  that  it  was  not  till  Reuben 
had  once  or  twice  sneered  at  him  in  public  that  he 
realised  there  was  any  friction  between  Grandturzel 


TREACHERIES  197 

and  Odiam,  and  even  then  he  scarcely  grasped  its  im- 
portance, for  one  night  at  the  Cocks,  Coalbran  said  rather 
maliciously  to  Reuben : 

"  Which  of  your  gals  is  it  that  young  Realf  is  sweet 
on  ?  " 

"  My  gals  !    Neither  of  'em.    Wot  d'you  mean  ?  " 

"  Only  that  he  walks  home  wud  them  from  church 
every  Sunday,  and  f$alkses  are  beginning  to  wonder 
which  he's  going  to  maake  Mrs.  Realf,  surelye  !  " 

Reuben  turned  brick-red  with  indignation. 

"  Neither  of  my  gals  is  going  to  be  Mrs.  Realf.  I'd 
see  her  dead  fust !  And  the  fellers  as  spread  about  such 
ugly  lying  tales,  I'll "  and  Reuben  scowled  thunder- 
ously at  Coalbran,  whom  he  had  never  forgiven  since 
the  scene  in  Rye  Court-house. 

11  He  slanders  my  sons  and  he  slanders  my  daughters," 
he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  went  home,  "  and  I  reckon 
as  this  time  it  aun't  true." 

However,  next  Sunday  he  astonished  his  family  by 
saying  he  would  accompany  them  to  church.  Hitherto 
Reuben's  churchmanship  had  been  entirely  political, 
he  had  hardly  ever  been  inside  Peasmarsh  church 
since  his  marriage,  except  for  the  christenings  of  his 
children — though  he  considered  himself  one  of  the  pillars 
of  the  Establishment.  His  family  were  exceedingly 
suspicious  of  this  change  of  heart,  and  the  girls  whis- 
pered guiltily  together.  "  He's  found  out,"  said  Caro, 
and  Tilly  sighed. 

There  was  much  turning  of  heads  when  Ben  Back- 
field  was  seen  to  take  his  place  with  his  children  in  their 
pew.  .  .  .  "  Wot's  he  arter  now  ?  " — "  Summat  to  do 
wud  his  farm  you  may  be  sartain." — "  He's  heard  about 
his  gals  and  young  Realf."—"  Ho,  the  wicked  old  sinner  ! 
I  wish  as  Passon  'ud  tip  it  to  un  straight." 

Realf  of  Grandturzel  sat  a  little  way  ahead  on  the 
opposite  side,  and  Reuben  watched  him  all  through  the 
service.  Times  had  changed  since  Robert  had  hurled 


198  SUSSEX    GORSE 

his  big  voice  among  the  rafters  with  the  village  choir. 
The  choir  now  sat  in  the  chancel  and  wore  surplices  ; 
the  Parson  too  wore  a  surplice  when  he  preached ;  for 
the  Oxford  Movement  had  spread  to  Peasmarsh,  and 
Mr.  Barnaby,  the  new  clergyman,  lived  at  the  Rectory, 
instead  of  appointing  a  curate  to  do  so,  and  unheard-of 
things  happened  in  the  way  of  week-day  services  and 
Holy  Communion  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Reuben,  however,  scarcely  noticed  the  changes,  so 
absorbed  was  he  in  young  Realf.  Occasionally  the  boy 
would  turn  his  head  on  his  shoulder  and  rashly  con- 
template the  Backfield  pew.  Reuben  invariably  met 
him  with  a  stare  and  a  scowl. 

All  through  the  sermon  he  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Realf 's  profile.  There  was  his  rival,  the  man  with  whom 
he  would  have  to  reckon  most  during  the  difficult 
future,  with  whom  he  was  fighting  for  Boarzell.  He 
looked  marvellously  young  and  comely  as  he  sat  there 
in  the  fretted  light,  and  suddenly  for  the  first  time 
Reuben  realised  that  he  was  not  as  young  as  he  had 
been.  He  was  forty-six — he  was  getting  old. 

Something  thick  and  icy  seemed  to  creep  into  hi's 
blood,  and  he  gripped  the  edge  of  the  pew,  as  he  stared 
at  Realf,  sitting  there  so  unconsciously,  his  damped  and 
brushed  hair  gleaming  ruddily  in  the  light  that  poured 
through  some  saint's  aureole.  He  must  not  let  this 
youngster  beat  him.  .  .  .  Beat  him  ? — the  ice  in  his  blood 
froze  thicker — after  all  he  had  not  done  so  very  much 
during  the  twenty-six  years  he  had  toiled  and 
struggled ;  he  had  won  only  a  hundred  acres  of  Boar- 
zell— little  more  than  Realf  had  to  start  with  .  .  .  and 
Realf  was  only  twenty-five. 

Caro  and  Tilly,  sitting  carefully  so  as  not  to  crush 
their  muslins,  both  their  heads  slewed  round  a  little 
towards  Realf,  noticed  how  their  father's  throat  was 
working,  how  hot  flows  of  colour  rushed  up  and  ebbed 
away  under  the  tan  on  his  cheeks.  For  the  first  time 


TREACHERIES  199 

Reuben  was  contemplating  failure,  looking  that  livid 
horror  full  in  the  face,  seeing  himself  beaten,  after  all 
his  toil  and  heartache,  by  a  younger  man. 

But  the  next  moment  he  cast  the  coward  feeling  from 
him.  His  experience  had  given  him  immeasurable 
advantage  over  this  babe.  Realf  who  had  never  felt 
the  sweat  pouring  like  water  down  his  tired  body,  who 
had  never  swooned  asleep  from  sheer  exhaustion,  or 
lain  awake  all  night  from  sheer  anxiety,  who  had  not 
sacrificed  wife  and  children  and  friends  and  self  to  one 
dear,  loved,  darling  ambition  .  .  .  bah  !  what  could  he  do 
against  the  man  who  had  done  all  these  things,  and  was 
prepared  to  go  on  doing  them  to  the  end  ? 

When  the  congregation  rose  to  sing  Reuben  held  his 
head  proudly  and  his  shoulders  square.  He  felt  himself  a 
match  for  any  youngster. 

§3- 

That  summer  old  Mrs.  Backfield  became  completely 
bedridden.  The  gratefulness  of  sunshine  to  her  old 
bones  was  counteracted  by  the  clammy  fogs  that 
streamed  up  every  night  round  the  farm.  It  was  an 
exceptionally  wet  and  misty  summer — a  great  deal  of 
Reuben's  wheat  rotted  in  the  ground,  and  he  scarcely 
took  any  notice  when  Tilly  announced  one  morning 
that  grandmother  was  too  ill  to  come  downstairs. 

When  the  struggle  on  the  lower  slopes  of  Boarzell 
between  the  damp  earth  and  the  determined  man  had 
ended  in  the  earth's  sludgy  victory  and  a  pile  of  rotten 
straw  which  should  have  been  the  glory  of  the  man — 
then  Reuben  had  time  to  think  of  what  was  going  on  in 
the  house.  He  sent  for  the  doctor — not  Dr.  Espinette, 
but  a  Cockney  successor  who  boiled  his  instruments  and 
washed  his  hands  in  carbolic — and  heard  from  him  that 
Mrs.  Backfield's  existence  was  no  longer  justified.  She 
could  not  expect  to  work  again. 


200  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Reuben  was  grieved,  but  not  so  much  grieved  as  if  she 
had  been  cut  down  in  her  strength — for  a  long  time  she 
had  been  pretty  useless  on  the  farm.  He  handed  her 
over  to  the  nursing  of  the  girls,  though  they  were  too 
busy  to  do  more  for  her  than  the  barest  necessities.  Now 
and  then  he  went  up  himself  and  sat  by  her  bed,  rest- 
lessly cracking  his  fingers,  and  fretting  to  be  out  again 
at  his  work. 

Sometimes  Harry  would  sit  by  her.  He  had  wandered 
in  one  day  wrhen  she  was  feeling  especially  ill  and  lonely, 
and  in  her  desperation  she  had  begged  him  to  stay.  At 
all  events  he  was  someone — a  human  being,  or  very 
nearly  so.  He  shuffled  restlessly  round  and  round  the 
room,  fingering  her  little  ornaments  and  pictures,  and 
muttering  to  himself,  "  Stay  wud  me,  Harry." 

He  liked  her  room,  for  she  had  a  dozen  things  he  could 
finger  and  play  with — little  vases  with  flowers  modelled 
over  them,  woolly  mats,  a  velvet  pincushion,  and  other 
survivals  of  her  married  life,  all  very  dusty  and  faded 
now.  Soon  she  began  to  find  a  strange  comfort  in 
having  him  there ;  the  uneasiness  and  vague  repulsion 
with  which  he  had  filled  her,  died  down,  and  she  began 
to  see  in  him  something  of  the  old  Harry  whom  she  had 
loved  so  much  better  than  Reuben  in  days  gone  by. 

As  the  summer  wore  on  she  grew  steadily  worse.  She 
lay  stiff  and  helpless  through  the  long  August  days, 
watching  the  sunlight  creep  up  the  wall,  slip  along  the 
ceiling,  and  then  vanish  into  the  pale,  heat-washed  sky 
that  gleamed  with  it  even  after  the  stars  had  come. 
She  did  not  fret  much,  or  think  much — she  watched 
things.  She  watched  the  sunshine  from  its  red  kindling 
to  its  red  scattering,  she  watched  the  moon  slide  across 
the  window,  and  haunt  the  mirror  after  it  had  passed — 
or  the  sign  of  the  Scales  dangling  in  the  black  sky. 
Sometimes  the  things  she  looked  at  seemed  to  fade,  and 
she  would  see  a  room  in  which  she  and  her  husband  were 
sitting  or  a  lane  along  which  they  were  walking  .  .  . 


TREACHERIES  201 

but  just  as  she  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  she  were 
not  really  still  young  and  happy  and  married  and  this 
vision  the  fact  and  the  sickness  and  loneliness  the  dream, 
then  suddenly  everything  would  pass  away  like  smoke, 
and  she  would  be  back  in  her  bed,  watching  the  travelling 
sun,  or  the  haunting  moon,  or  the  hanging  stars. 

In  October  a  steam-thresher  came  to  Odiam.  The 
wheat  had  been  bad,  but  there  was  still  plenty  of  grain 
to  thresh,  and  for  a  whole  day  the  machine  sobbed  and 
sang  under  the  farmhouse  walls — "  Urrr-um — Urrr-um 
— Urrr-um." 

Mrs.  Backfield  lay  listening  to  it.  She  felt  very  ill, 
but  everyone  was  too  busy  to  come  to  her — Reuben  was 
out  in  the  yard  feeding  his  monster,  while  the  boys 
gathered  up  and  sacked  what  it  vomited  out ;  Caro  and 
Tilly  were  washing  blankets.  Harry  had  gone  off  on 
some  trackless  errand  of  his  own. 

The  afternoon  was  very  still  and  soft.  It  was  full  of 
the  smell  of  apples — of  apples  warm  and  sunny  on  the 
trees,  of  apples  fallen  and  rotting  in  the  grass,  of  apples 
dry  and  stored  in  the  loft.  There  were  little  apples  on 
the  walls  of  the  house,  and  their  skins  were  warm  and 
bursting  in  the  heat. 

The  thresher  purred  and  panted  under  the  window — 
"  Urrr-um — Urrr-um. "  Now  and  then  Reuben  would 
call  out  sharply,  "  Now  then  !  mind  them  genuines — 
they're  mixing  wud  the  seconds  !  "  or  "  Kip  them  sacks 
closed,  Beatup."  But  for  most  of  the  afternoon  the 
stillness  was  broken  only  by  the  hum  of  the  machine 
which  sometimes  almost  seemed  a  part  of  it. 

Mrs.  Backfield  according  to  her  custom  watched  the 
sun.  It  bathed  the  floor  at  first,  but  gradually  she  saw 
the  square  of  the  window  paint  itself  on  the  wall,  and 
then  slide  slowly  up  towards  the  ceiling.  Her  eyes 
mechanically  followed  it ;  then  suddenly  it  blazed, 
filmed,  flowed  out  into  a  wide  spread  of  light,  in  the 
midst  of  which  she  saw  the  kitchen  at  Odiam  as  it  used 


202  SUSSEX    GORSE 

to  be,  with  painted  fans  on  the  chimney-piece  and  pots 
of  flowers  on  the  window-sill.  Her  husband  sat  by  the 
fire,  smoking  his  pipe,  while  Harry  was  helping  her  tidy 
her  workbasket. 

"  There  now  !  "  she  said  to  him,  "  I  knew  as  it  really 
wur  a  dream/' 

"  Wot  ?  "  he  asked  her,  and  she,  in  her  dream,  felt  a 
spasm  of  delight,  for  it  was  all  happening  so  naturally — 
it  must  be  true. 

"  About  faather  being  dead,  and  you  being  blind,  and 
Ben  having  the  farm." 

"  Of  course  it's  a  dream — faather  aun't  dead,  and  I 
aun't  blind,  and  Ben's  picking  nuts  over  at  Pudding- 
cake." 

"  You  couldn't  spik  to  me  lik  this  if  it  wur  a  dream, 
Harry — could  you,  dear  ?  " 

He  didn't  answer — and  then  suddenly  he  turned  on 
her  and  shouted : 

"  Sack  your  chaff,  now — can't  you  sack  your  chaff  ?  " 

"  Harry  !  Harry  !  "  she  cried,  and  came  to  herself  in 
the  little  sun-smouldering  room,  while  outside  Reuben 
stormed  at  his  boys  to  "  sack  their  chaff,"  and  the 
machine  purred  and  sang —  "  Urrr-um — Urrr-um." 

A  sudden  terrible  lucidity  came  to  Mrs.  Backfield. 

"  It's  machines  as  he  wants,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  it's  machines  as  he  wants.  .  .  ." 

Then  a  gentle  darkness  stole  upon  her  eyes,  as  her 
overworked  machine  of  flesh  and  blood  ran  down  and 
throbbed  slowly  into  stillness  and  peace. 

Outside  the  great  fatigueless  machine  of  steel  and  iron 
sang  on — "  Urrr-um — Urrr-um — Urrr-um." 

§4. 

The  girls  cried  a  great  deal  at  their  grandmother's 
death — she  had  never  taken  up  enough  room  in  the 
boys'  lives  for  them  to  miss  her  much.  As  for  Reuben, 


TREACHERIES  203 

though  he  had  been  fond  of  her,  he  could  not  sincerely 
regret  her,  since  for  the  last  few  months  she  had,  so  to 
speak,  been  carried  on  entirely  at  a  loss. 

He  needed  every  penny  and  every  minute  more 
desperately  than  ever,  for  Grandturzel  ran  Odiam 
closer  and  closer  in  the  race.  Realf  now  plainly  saw 
how  matters  stood.  As  yet  there  was  no  open  breach 
between  him  and  Reuben — when  one  of  them  came 
into  the  public-house  the  other  always  waited  a  decent 
interval  before  clearing  out — but  if  there  was  no  open 
breach,  there  was  open  rivalry.  All  the  neighbourhood 
knew  of  it,  and  many  a  bet  was  made. 

The  odds  were  generally  on  Reuben.  It  was  felt  that 
a  certain  unscrupulousness  was  necessary  to  the  job, 
and  in  that  Backfield  had  the  advantage.  "  Young 
Realf  wudn't  hurt  a  fly/'  his  champions  had  to  acknow- 
ledge. Though  the  money  was  with  Reuben,  the 
sympathy  was  mostly  with  Realf,  for  the  former's 
dealings  had  scarcely  made  him  popular.  He  was  a 
hard  man  to  his  customers,  he  never  let  them  owe  him 
for  grain  or  roots  or  fodder ;  his  farm-hands,  when 
drunk,  spoke  of  him  as  a  monster,  and  a  not  very  tender- 
hearted peasantry  worked  itself  sentimental  over  his 
treatment  of  his  children. 

For  some  months  the  antagonism  between  Odiam  and 
Grandturzel  remained  in  this  polite  state,  most  of  the 
fighting  being  done  by  their  champions.  The  landlord 
of  the  Cocks  grew  quite  tired  of  chucking  out  Odiamites 
and  Grandturzelites  who  could  not,  like  their  leaders, 
confine  their  war  to  words.  But  it  only  wanted  some 
cause,  however  trivial,  to  make  the  principals  show  their 
fists.  The  time  that  Reuben  would  stay  in  the  bar  after 
Realf  had  entered  it  grew  shorter  and  shorter,  and  his 
pretexts  for  leaving  more  and  more  flimsy.  Realf  him- 
self, though  a  genial,  good-tempered  young  man,  could 
not  help  resenting  the  scorn  with  which  he  was  treated. 
He  once  told  Ginner  that  Backfield  was  an  uncivilised 


204  SUSSEX    GORSE 

brute,  and  Ginner  took  care  to  forward  this  remark  to 
the  proper  quarter. 

At  last  the  gods,  who  are  more  open-handed  than 
ungrateful  people  suppose,  took  pity  on  the  rivals,  and 
gave  them  something  to  fight  about.  The  pretext  was 
in  itself  trivial,  but  when  the  gunpowder  is  laid  nothing 
bigger  than  a  match  is  needed.  This  particular  pretext 
was  a  barrow  of  roots  which  had  been  ordered  from 
Kitchenhour  by  Reuben  and  sent  by  mistake  to  Grand- 
turzel.  Realf's  shepherd,  not  seeing  any  cause  for  doubt, 
gave  the  roots  as  winter  fodder  to  his  ewes,  and  said 
nothing  about  them.  When  Reuben  tramped  over  to 
Kitchenhour  and  asked  furiously  why  his  roots  had 
never  been  sent,  the  mistake  was  discovered.  He  came 
home  by  Grandturzel,  and  found  his  precious  roots,  all 
thrown  out  on  the  fields,  being  nibbled  by  Realf  s  ewes. 

Realf  himself  was  away,  but  Reuben  left  such  a 
stinging  message  for  him,  that  apology  was  impossible 
except  in  a  form  that  could  only  be  regarded  as  a  fresh 
insult.  An  apology  in  this  shape  reached  Odiam  at 
dinner-time,  and  Reuben  at  once  sent  off  Beatup  with 
an  acceptance  of  it  that  was  very  nearly  obscene.  The 
result  was  that  Realf  himself  arrived  about  three 
o'clock,  furiously  demanding  an  explanation  of  his 
neighbour's  insulting  conduct. 

The  two  men  met  in  the  kitchen,  Peter  backing  up  his 
father,  and  for  a  long  time  the  scene  was  stormy,  the 
word  "  roots  "  whirling  about  the  conversation,  with  the 
prefix  "  my  good  "  or  "  your  hemmed  "  as  the  case 
might  be.  Realf  was  genuinely  angry — Reuben's 
attitude  of  mingled  truculence  and  scorn  had  wounded 
even  his  easy  pride. 

"  You're  justabout  afeard  of  me,  that's  wot  you  are. 
You  think  I'll  bust  up  your  old  farm  and  show  myself  a 
better  man  than  you.  You're  afeard  of  me  because  I'm 
a  younger  man  than  you." 

"  Ho,  afeard  of  you,  am  I  ? — and  because  you're  a 


TREACHERIES  205 

youngster  ?  I'll  justabout  show  you  wot  a  youngster's 
worth.  A  better  man,  are  you  ? — Put  up  your  fists,  and 
we'll  see  who's  the  better  man." 

Reuben  began  to  take  off  his  coat — young  Realf  drew 
back  almost  in  disgust. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  fight  a  man  old  enough  to  be  my 
father/'  he  said,  flushing. 

"  Ho,  aun't  you  ? — Come  on,  you  puppy-dog,  and  see 
fur  yourself  if  you  need  taake  pity  on  my  old  age." 

He  had  flung  off  his  coat,  and  squared  up  to  Realf,  who, 
seeing  no  alternative,  began  to  strip. 

Peter  interposed : 

"  Let  me  taake  him  on,  faather.  I'll  show  him  a 
thing  or  two." 

Reuben  turned  on  him  savagely. 

"  Stand  clear  ! — who  wants  your  tricks  ?  I'm  going 
to  show  him  wot  a  man's  worth — a  man  wot's  had  his 
beard  longer  than  this  puppy's  bin  in  the  warld." 

"  But  you're  out  of  training." 

"  I'm  in  training  enough  to  whip  boys.    Stand  clear  !  " 

Pete  stood  clear,  as  the  two  combatants  closed. 
Neither  knew  much  of  the  game.  Realf  had  been  born 
too  late  for  boxing  to  have  been  considered  a  necessary 
part  of  his  education,  and  Reuben  had  been  taught  in  an 
old  school — the  school  of  Bendigo  and  Deaf  Burke — 
mighty  bashers,  who  put  their  confidence  in  their 
strength,  despised  finesse,  and  counted  their  victories 
in  pints  of  blood. 

He  fairly  beat  down  on  Realf,  who  was  lithe  enough 
generally  to  avoid  him,  but  not  experienced  enough  to 
do  so  as  often  as  he  might.  Every  time  Reuben  struck 
him,  the  floor  seemed  to  rush  up  to  his  eyes,  and  the 
walls  to  sag,  and  the  house  to  fill  with  smoke.  Pete 
danced  round  them  silently,  for  while  his  sympathies 
were  with  his  father  his  sporting  instincts  bade  him  keep 
outwardly  impartial.  He  was  disgusted  with  their  foot- 
work, indeed  their  whole  style  outraged  his  bruising 


206  SUSSEX    GORSE 

ideals  ;  but  it  pleased  him  to  see  how  much  Reuben  was 
the  better  man. 

They  hardly  ever  clinched — on  the  other  hand,  there 
was  much  plunging  and  rushing.  Reuben  brought 
down  Realf  three  times  and  Realf  brought  down 
Reuben  once.  It  was  noticeable  that  if  the  younger 
man  fell  more  easily  he  also  picked  himself  up  more 
quickly.  Between  the  rounds  they  leaned  exhausted 
against  the  wall,  Pete  prowling  about  between  them, 
longing  to  take  his  father  on  his  knee,  but  still  resolved 
to  see  fair  play. 

It  was  not  likely  that  the  fight  would  be  a  long  one,  for 
both  combatants  were  already  winded.  Realf,  moreover, 
was  bleeding  from  the  nose,  and  Reuben's  left  eye  was 
swollen.  Once  he  caught  a  hit  flush  on  the  mouth  which 
cut  his  nether  lip  in  two,  and,  owing  to  his  bad  foot- 
work, brought  him  down.  But  he  was  winning  all  the 
same. 

For  once  that  Realf  managed  to  land  a  blow,  Reuben 
landed  a  couple,  and  with  twice  as  much  weight  behind 
them.  The  younger  man  soon  began  to  look  green  and 
sick,  he  staggered  about,  and  flipped,  while  the  sweat 
poured  off  his  forehead  into  his  eyes.  Reuben  breathed 
stertorously  and  could  scarcely  see  out  of  his  left  eye,  but 
was  otherwise  game.  Pete  felt  prouder  of  him  than 
ever. 

Suddenly  Backfield's  fist  crashed  into  Realf s  body, 
full  on  the  mark.  The  wind  rushed  out  of  him  as  out 
of  a  bellows,  and  he  doubled  up  like  a  screen.  This  time 
he  made  no  effort  to  rise ;  he  lay  motionless,  one  arm 
thrown  out  stiff  and  joint  less  as  a  bough,  while  a  little 
blood-flecked  foam  oozed  from  between  his  teeth. 

"  You've  done  it !  "  cried  Pete. 

Reuben  had  flopped  down  in  a  heap  on  the  settle,  and 
his  son  ran  off  for  help.  He  flung  open  the  door,  and 
nearly  fell  over  Tilly  who  was  cowering  behind  it. 


TREACHERIES  207 

§5- 

"  Here — bring  some  water  !  "  cried  Peter,  too  much 
relieved  to  see  her  to  be  surprised  at  it. 

Tilly  flung  one  wide-eyed  glance  over  her  shoulder 
into  the  room  where  young  Realf  lay,  and  dashed  off 
for  water  and  towels,  while  Pete  fetched  a  piece  of  raw 
meat  out  of  the  larder. 

It  was  a  minute  or  two  before  Realf  opened  his 
swollen,  watering  eyes,  and  gazed  up  bewildered  into 
the  face  of  the  woman  he  had  said  his  prayers  to  for  a 
dozen  Sundays.  She  held  his  head  in  the  crook  of  her 
arm,  and  wiped  the  froth  and  blood  from  his  lips. 

"  Better  now  ?  "  asked  Pete. 

Realf  suddenly  seemed  to  shrink  into  himself.  The 
next  minute  he  was  swaying  unsteadily  on  his  legs, 
refusing  the  hands  held  out  to  support  him, 

"  I'm  going  home,"  he  mumbled  through  his  bruised 
lips. 

"  I'll  taake  you,"  said  Pete  cheerily. 

But  Realf  of  Grandturzel  shook  his  head.  His  humilia- 
tion was  more  than  he  could  bear.  Without  another 
look  at  Pete  or  Tilly,  or  at  Reuben  holding  the  raw  chop 
to  his  eye,  he  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  room  with 
bent  head  and  dragging  footsteps. 

For  a  moment  Pete  looked  as  if  he  would  follow  him, 
but  Reuben  impatiently  called  him  back. 

"  Leave  the  cub  alone,  can't  you  ?  Let  him  go  and 
eat  grass." 

Tilly  stood  motionless  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her 
little  nose  wrinkled  with  horror  at  the  bloodstains  on 
the  floor  and  at  Reuben  whose  face  was  all  bruised  and 
swollen  and  shiny  with  the  juice  of  the  raw  meat.  Pete 
saw  her  shudder,  and  resented  it. 

"  It  wur  a  praaper  fight,"  he  declared.  "  You  want  to 
manage  them  feet  of  yourn  a  bit  slicker,  faather — but 
you  wur  justabout  smart  wud  your  fists." 


208  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Tilly's  blood  ran  thick  with  disgust ;  she  turned  from 
them  suddenly — that  coarse,  bloodthirsty,  revolting 
pair — and  ran  quickly  out  of  the  room. 

She  ran  out  of  the  house.  Away  on  Boarzell  a  man 
plodded  and  stumbled.  She  saw  him  stagger  as  the 
wind  battered  him,  reel  and  nearly  fall  among  the 
treacheries  of  the  dead  heather.  He  was  like  a  drunken 
man,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  drunk  with  shame. 

All  flushed  with  pity  she  realised  the  bitterness  of 
his  fate — he  who  was  so  young  and  strong  and  clean 
and  gay,  had  been  degraded,  shamed  by  her  father, 
whom  in  that  moment  she  looked  upon  entirely  as  a 
brute.  It  must  not  be.  He  had  been  so  good  to  her, 
so  friendly  and  courteous  in  their  Sunday  walks — she 
must  not  let  him  go  away  from  her  shamed  and  beaten. 

She  gathered  up  her  skirts  and  ran  across  the  garden, 
out  on  to  the  Moor.  She  ran  through  the  heather, 
stumbling  in  the  knotted  thickness.  The  spines  tore 
her  stockings,  and  in  one  clump  she  lost  her  shoe.  But 
she  did  not  wait.  Her  little  chin  was  thrust  forward  in 
the  obstinacy  of  her  pursuit,  and  when  she  came  closer 
to  him  she  called—"  Mr.  Realf  !  Mr.  Realf !  " 

He  stopped  and  looked  round,  and  the  next  minute 
she  was  at  his  side.  Her  hair  was  all  blown  about  her 
face,  her  cheeks  were  flushed  the  colour  of  bell-heather, 
and  her  breast  heaved  like  a  wave.  She  could  not 
speak,  but  her  eyes  were  blessing  him,  and  then  suddenly 
both  her  hands  were  in  his. 

§6. 

Early  in  the  next  year  Sir  Miles  Bardon  died,  and  his 
son  Ralph  became  Squire.  Reuben  had  now,  as  he  put 
it,  lived  through  three  Bardons.  He  despised  the  en- 
feebled and  effete  race  with  its  short  life-times,  and  his 
own  body  became  straighter  when  he  thought  of  Sir 
Miles's  under  the  earth. 


TREACHERIES  209 

For  every  reason  now,  Odiam  was  being  forced  on. 
Realf  had  sought  comfort  for  his  personal  humiliation 
in  making  his  farm  more  spick  and  span  than  ever. 
Reuben  became  aware  of  a  certain  untidiness  about 
Odiam,  and  spent  much  on  paint  and  tar — just  as  the 
frills  of  a  younger  rival  might  incite  to  extravagance  a 
woman  who  had  hitherto  despised  the  fashions.  He 
painted  his  waggons  a  beautiful  blue,  and  his  oasts 
were  even  blacker  and  shinier  than  Grandturzel's.  He 
had  wooden  horses  to  dance  on  their  pointers,  where- 
upon Realf  put  cocks  on  his. 

The  thought  of  Tilly  did  not  check  the  young  man 
in  this  beggar-my-neighbour,  for  he  knew  that  her 
father's  ambition  meant  her  slavery.  So  when  Reuben 
added  a  prize  Jersey  heifer  to  his  stock,  Realf  bought  a 
Newlands  champion  milker,  and  when  Reuben  launched 
desperately  on  a  hay-rope  twister,  Realf  ran  him  up 
with  a  wurzel-cutter.  Finally  Reuben  bought  twenty 
acres  of  Boarzell,  in  which  Realf  did  not  attempt  to 
rival  him,  for  he  already  had  forty  which  he  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with.  Reuben's  stragglings  with 
Boarzell  struck  him  as  pathetic  rather  than  splendid, 
an  aberration  of  ambition  which  would  finally  spoil 
the  main  scheme. 

So  Realf's  answer  took  the  form  of  an  extra  cowman, 
whereupon  Reuben  hired  a  couple  of  new  hands,  causing 
his  family  to  leap  secretly  and  silently  for  joy  and  to 
bless  the  man  who  by  his  rivalry  had  lightened  their 
yoke.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Reuben  would  have  been 
forced  to  engage  one  man,  anyhow  ;  for  the  new  piece 
of  land  had  at  once  to  be  prepared  for  cultivation,  and 
gave  even  more  trouble  than  the  pieces  which  had  already 
been  cultivated  but  showed  a  distressing  proneness  to 
relapse  into  savagery.  The  lower  slope  of  Boarzell  was 
now  covered  with  fields,  where  corn  grew,  as  the  neigh- 
bours said,  "  if  one  wur  careful  not  to  spik  too  loud," 
and  the  ewes  could  pasture  safely  if  their  shepherd  were 


210  SUSSEX    GORSE 

watchful.  But  it  somehow  seemed  as  if  all  these  things 
were  only  on  sufferance,  and  that  directly  Reuben 
rested  his  tired  arm  Boarzell  would  snatch  them  back 
to  itself,  to  be  its  own  for  ever. 

Reuben  swaggered  a  little  about  his  new  farm-hands, 
especially  as  Realf  showed  no  signs  of  going  any  further 
in  hirelings.  One  man,  Boorman,  came  from  Shoyswell 
near  Ticehurst,  and  was  said  to  be  an  authority  on  the 
diseases  of  roots,  while  the  other,  Handshut,  came  from 
Cheat  Land  on  the  western  borders  of  Peasmarsh. 
Reuben  went  over  to  get  his  "  character  "  from  Jury 
theutenant — and  that  was  how  he  met  Alice  Jury. 

§7- 

The  door  was  opened  to  him  by  a  tall  young  woman 
in  a  grey  dress  covered  by  an  apron.  Reuben  was 
struck  by  that  apron,  for  it  was  not  the  sacking  kind  to 
which  he  was  accustomed,  or  the  plain  white  muslin 
which  his  women-folk  wore  on  Sundays,  but  a  coarse 
brick-coloured  cotton,  hanging  from  her  shoulders  like 
a  pinafore.  The  girl's  face  above  it  was  not  pretty,  but 
exceptionally  vivid — "  vivid "  was  the  word,  not 
prominent  in  Reuben's  vocabulary,  which  flashed  into 
his  mind  when  he  saw  her.  Her  colouring  was  pale, 
and  her  features  were  small  and  irregular,  her  hair  was 
very  frizzy  and  quite  black,  while  her  grey  eyes  were 
at  once  the  narrowest  and  the  liveliest  he  had  ever  seen, 

"  I'm  sorry — father's  not  at  home,"  she  said  in  answer 
to  his  question. 

"  But  I  toald  him  as  I  wur  coming  over — it's  about 
that  Handshut." 

She  smiled. 

11  I'm  afraid  father  forgets  things.  But  come  in,  he's 
bound  to  be  home  to  his  dinner  soon." 

Reuben  grumbled  and  muttered  to  himself  as  he 
crossed  the  threshold — small  fry  like  these  Jurys  must 


TREACHERIES  211 

not  be  allowed  to  think  that  he  had  any  time  to  spare. 
The  young  woman  led  him  into  the  kitchen  and  offered 
him  a  seat.  Reuben  took  it  and  crossed  his  legs,  looking 
appraisingly  round  the  room,  which  was  poorly  furnished, 
but  beautifully  kept,  with  some  attempts  at  decoration. 
There  was  a  print  of  Rossetti's  "  Annunciation  "  above 
the  meal-chest,  and  a  shelf  of  books  by  the  fireplace. 
It  all  struck  him  as  strange  and  rather  contemptible. 
He  remembered  what  he  had  been  told  about  the 
Jurys,  who  had  only  just  come  to  Cheat  Land.  Tom 
Jury  had,  so  rumour  said,  kept  a  bookshop  in  Hastings, 
but  trade  had  gone  badly,  and  as  his  health  demanded 
an  outdoor  life  and  country  air,  charitable  friends  had 
established  him  on  a  small  holding.  He  had  an  invalid 
wife,  and  one  daughter,  who  was  not  very  strong  either 
— an  ignoble  family. 

The  daughter  must  be  the  girl  who  was  talking  to 
him  now.  She  sat  on  a  little  stool  by  the  fire,  and  had 
brought  out  some  sewing. 

"  You  come  from  Odiam,  don't  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  that's  it." 

"  Is  Odiam  that  farm  near  Totease  ?  " 

Reuben  looked  as  if  he  had  swallowed  the  poker.  He 
stared  at  her  to  see  if  she  were  making  fun  of  him,  but 
her  bright  eyes  were  quite  innocent. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  huskily—"  it  is." 

"  We've  only  been  here  a  month,  so  I  haven't  got  the 
neighbourhood  quite  clear.  You  see  I  can't  often  go 
out,  as  my  mother's  generally  in  bed,  and  I  have  all  the 
house-work  to  do.  That's  why  my  father  has  to  have  a 
man  to  help  him  out  of  doors.  It's  a  pity,  for  wages  are 
so  high — Handshut's  leaving  us  because  we  could  do 
with  someone  cheaper  and  less  experienced." 

Reuben  liked  her  voice,  with  its  town  modulation,  the 
only  vestige  of  Sussex  taint  being  a  slight  drawl.  It 
struck  him  that  Alice  Jury  was  a  "  lady,"  and  that  he 
was  not  condescending  very  much  in  speaking  to  her. 


212  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  It's  unaccountable  hard  to  know  what  to  do  about 
labour.  Now  as  these  fellers  are  gitting  eddicated  they 
think  no  end  of  theirselves  and  'ull  ask  justabout  any- 
thing in  wages — as  if  a  man  hoed  turnups  any  better  for 
being  able  to  read  and  write." 

"  But  don't  you  think  he  does  ?  " 

"  No — I  doan't.  I'm  all  agaunst  teaching  poor  people 
anything  and  setting  them  above  theirselves.  It's 
different  fur  their  betters.  Now  I've  got  six  boys,  and 
they  can  all  read  and  write  and  cast  accounts." 

"  Six  boys,  have  you  ?    Are  they  grown  up  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  youngest 's  sixteen." 

"  And  do  they  help  you  on  the  farm  ?  " 

"  Yes — leastways  four  of  'em  do.  Two  have — have 
left  home." 

"  I  suppose  they  didn't  care  for  farming  ?  " 

"  One's  in  prison,  and  t'other  I  turned  away." 

Reuben  had  no  idea  why  he  said  this.  It  must  have 
been  the  way  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him,  glowing  above 
bistred  shadows. 

"  Oh,  indeed  ! — how  sad." 

He  flushed  the  colour  of  her  apron.  What  a  fool  he 
was  ! — and  yet  after  all  she  would  be  bound  to  hear  the 
truth  sooner  or  later  ;  he  had  only  been  beforehand. 
All  the  same  he  was  surprised  at  himself.  A  sudden 
tide  of  anger  went  over  him. 

"  Sad  fur  them,  I  reckon,  but  not  fur  me.  I'm  well 
shut  of  them." 

"  Don't  you  miss  them  at  all  ?  " 

"  Naun  particular.  Robert  he  wur  good  and  plodding- 
like,  but  you  couldn't  trust  his  stacking,  and  he'd  be  all 
nohow  wud  the  horses — and  Albert  he'd  shirk  everything 
wotsumdever,  he'd  go  off  into  dreams  in  the  middle  of 
killing  a  pig — surely e  !  " 

"  But  in  themselves,  I  mean." 

"  Wot's  that— in  themselves  ?  " 

"  Well,  as  boys,  as  sons,  not  as  farm-servants." 


TREACHERIES  213 

"  I  ddan't  never  think  of  them  that  way.  One's  no 
good  to  me  wudout  t'other/' 

Alice  Jury  said  nothing,  and  Reuben  began  to  feel 
vaguely  uncomfortable.  What  queer  eyes  she  had  ! — 
they  seemed  to  bore  into  him  like  nails.  He  suddenly 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"  See  here — I  must  be  going/' 

"  But  father  won't  be  long  now." 

"  I'm  sorry — I  can't  wait.  I've  a  load  of  field-bean 
coming  in.  I'll  be  round  agaun  to-morrow." 

"  What  time  ? — and  I'll  promise  father  shall  be  here 
to  see  you." 

"  About  eleven,  say.    Good-bye,  miss." 

«  Good-bye." 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door.  A  great  lump  of 
phlox  grew  on  either  side  of  it.  She  stood  between 
them,  and  suddenly  pointed  out  over  Jury's  miserable 
little  root-patch  towards  Boarzell,  heaving  its  great 
hummocks  against  the  east. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

§8. 

Reuben  came  away  from  Cheat  Land  with  odd 
feelings  of  annoyance,  perplexity,  and  exhilaration. 
Alice  Jury  was  queer,  and  she  had  insulted  him,  never- 
theless those  ten  minutes  spent  with  her  had  left  him 
tingling  all  over  with  a  strange  excitement. 

He  could  not  account  for  it.  Women  had  excited  him 
before,  but  merely  physically.  He  took  it  for  granted 
that  they  had  minds  and  souls  like  men,  but  he  had  not 
thought  much  about  that  aspect  of  them  or  allowed 
it  to  enter  his  calculations.  Of  late  he  had  scarcely 
troubled  about  women  at  all,  having  something  better 
to  think  of. 

Now  he  found  himself  thrown  into  a  kind  of  dazzle  by 
Alice  Jury.  He  could  not  explain  it.  Her  personal 


214  SUSSEX    GORSE 

beauty  was  negligible — "  a  liddle  stick  of  a  thing/1  he 
called  her  ;  their  conversation  had  been  limited  almost 
entirely  to  her  tactless  questions  and  his  forbearing 
answers. 

"  She  aun't  my  sort,"  he  mumbled  as  he  walked  home, 
"  she  aun't  at  all  my  sort.  Dudn't  know  where  Odiam 
wur — never  heard  of  Boarzell — oh,  yes,  seems  as  she 
remembered  hearing  something  when  I  toald  her  " — 
and  Reuben's  lip  curled  ironically. 

He  had  not  told  her  of  his  ambitions  with  regard  to 
Boarzell,  and  now  he  found  himself  wishing  that  he  had 
done  so.  He  had  been  affronted  by  her  ignorance,  but 
as  his  indignation  cooled  he  longed  to  confide  in  her. 
Why,  he  could  not  say,  for  unmistakably  she  "  wasn't 
his  sort  "  ;  it  was  not  likely  that  she  would  sympathise, 
and  yet  he  wanted  to  pour  all  the  treasures  of  his  hope 
into  her  indifference.  He  had  never  felt  like  this 
towards  anyone  before. 

He  spent  the  day  restlessly,  and  the  next  morning 
walked  over  to  Cheat  Land  before  half -past  ten.  Alice 
Jury  opened  the  door,  and  looked  surprised  to  see  him. 

"  You  said  you  were  coming  at  eleven.  I'm  afraid 
father's  out  again." 

"  I  wur  passing  this  way,  so  thought  I'd  call  in  on  the 
chance,"  said  Reuben  guiltily — "  I  doan't  mind  waiting." 

She  called  a  long-legged  boy  who  was  weeding  among 
the  turnips,  and  bade  him  go  over  to  Puddingcake  and 
fetch  the  master.  Then  she  led  the  way  to  the  kitchen, 
which  smelled  deliciously  of  baking  bread. 

"  You  don't  mind  if  I  go  on  with  my  baking  ?  I've 
twelve  loaves  in  the  oven." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Reuben,  sitting  in  yesterday's  chair, 
and  gazing  up  at  the  Rossetti. 

"  Do  you  like  pictures  ?  "  asked  Alice,  thumping 
dough. 

"  Some,"  said  Reuben,  "  but  I  like  'em  coloured 
best." 


TREACHERIES  215 

"  I  paint  a  little  myself,"  said  Alice — "  when  IVe 
time."  / 

"  Wot  sort  o'  things  do  you  paint  ?  " 

"  Oh,  landscapes  mostly.  That's  mine  " — and  she 
pointed  to  a  little  water-colour  sketch  of  a  barn. 

"  Could  you  paint  a  picture  of  Odiam  ?  " 

"  I  expect  I  could — not  really  well,  you  know,  just 
something  like  this." 

"  Could  you  paint  Boarzell  ?  " 

He  leaned  towards  her  over  the  back  of  his  chair. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say." 

"  Could  you  do  it  wud  all  the  colours  on  it  and  all 
that  ? — all  the  pinks  you  git  on  it  sometimes,  and  the 
lovely  yaller  the  gorse  maakes  ?  " 

She  was  surprised  at  his  enthusiasm.  His  eyes  were 
kindling,  and  a  blush  was  creeping  under  his  sunburn. 

"  Oh,  I  could  try !  Do  you  want  a  picture  of  Boar- 
zell ?  " 

"I'd  like  one  if  you  could  really  do  it  to  look  natural." 

She  smiled.  "  Perhaps  I  could.  But  why  do  you 
think  so  much  of  Boarzell  ?  " 

"  Because  I'm  going  to  maake  it  mine." 

"  Yours  !  " 

f<  Yes — I  mean  to  have  the  whole  of  it." 

"  But  can  you  grow  anything  on  a  waste  like  that  ?  " 

"  /  can.  IVe  got  near  a  hundred  acres  sown  already  " 
.  .  .  and  then  all  the  floodgates  that  had  been  shut  for 
so  long  were  burst,  and  the  tides  of  his  confidence  rolled 
out  to  her,  moaning — all  the  ache  of  his  ambition  which 
nobody  would  share. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with  their  strange  spell, 
and  her  sharp  little  face  was  grave.  He  knew  that  she 
did  not  sympathise — he  had  not  expected  it.  But  he 
was  glad  he  had  told  her. 

Her  first  words  startled  him. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  worth  while  ?  " 

"  Wot's  worth  while  ?  " 


216  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  To  give  up  so  much  for  the  sake  of  a  piece  of  land." 

Reuben  gaped  at  her. 

"  I've  no  right  to  preach  to  you  ;  but  I  think  I  may 
be  allowed  to  ask  you— 'is  it  worth  while  ?  ;  " 

He  was  too  flabbergasted  to  be  angry.  The  question 
had  simply  never  come  into  his  experience.  Many  a 
man  had  said,  "  Do  you  think  you'll  do  it  ?  "  but  no  one 
had  ever  said,  "  Do  you  think  it's  worth  while  ?  " 

Alice  saw  her  blunder.  She  saw  that  she  had  insulted 
his  ambition  ;  and  yet,  though  she  now  understood  the 
ferocities  of  that  ambition,  it  filled  her  with  a  definite 
hostility  which  made  her  want  to  fight  and  fight  and 
fight  it  with  all  the  strength  she  had.  At  the  same 
time,  as  his  surprise  collapsed,  his  own  antagonism 
rose  up.  He  felt  a  sudden  hatred,  not  for  the  girl, 
but  for  the  forces  which  somehow  he  knew  she  was 
bringing  to  oppose  him.  They  faced  each  other,  their 
eyes  bright  with  challenge,  their  breasts  heaving 
with  a  stormier,  earthlier  emotion — and  the  white 
flame  of  antagonism  which  divided  them  seemed  at 
the  same  time  to  fuse  them,  melt  them  into  each  other. 

§9- 

Reuben  was  going  through  a  new  experience.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  had  fallen  under  the  dominion 
of  a  personality.  From  his  boyhood  he  had  been 
enslaved  by  an  idea,  but  people,  in  anything  except 
their  relation  to  that  idea,  had  never  influenced  him. 
Now  for  the  first  time  he  had  a  life  outside  Boarzell,  an 
interest,  a  set  of  thoughts,  which  were  not  only  apart 
from  Boarzell  but  antagonistic  to  it. 

Hitherto  he  had  always  considered  the  opposite  of 
his  ambition  to  be  the  absence  of  it.  Either  one  lived 
to  subdue  the  hostile  earth,  or  one  lived  with  no  object 
at  all.  It  was  a  new  experience  to  find  someone  whose 
life  was  full  of  hopes,  ideals,  and  ambitions,  all  utterly 


TREACHERIES  217 

unconnected  with  a  farm,  and  it  was  even  more  strange 
than  new  that  he  should  care  to  talk  about  them.  Not 
that  he  ever  found  himself  being  tempted  from  his  own 
— the  most  vital  part  of  his  relations  with  Alice  Jury 
lay  in  their  warfare.  He  fought  her  as  he  fought  Boar- 
zell,  though  without  that  sense  of  a  waiting  treachery 
which  tinctured  his  battles  with  the  Moor  ;  their  inter- 
course was  full  of  conflict,  of  fiery,  sacred  hostilities. 
They  travelled  on  different  roads,  and  knew  that  they 
could  never  walk  together,  yet  each  wanted  to  count 
the  other's  milestones. 

Sometimes  Reuben  would  ask  himself  if  he  was  in 
love  with  her,  but  as  the  physical  element  which  he  had 
always  and  alone  called  love  was  absent,  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  was  not.  If  he  had  thought  he  loved 
her  he  would  have  avoided  her,  but  there  was  no  danger 
in  this  parliament  of  their  minds.  Her  attitude  towards 
life,  though  it  obsessed  him,  no  more  convinced  him 
than  his  convinced  her.  They  would  rail  and  wrangle 
together  by  the  hour. 

"  Life  is  worth  while/'  said  Alice,  "  in  itself,  not 
because  of  what  it  gives  you." 

"  I  agree  with  you  there,"  said  Reuben,  "  it's  not  wot 
life  gives  that's  good,  it's  wot  you  taake  out  of  it." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  Suppose  that  because  I  liked  that 
girl's  face  in  the  picture  I  tore  it  out  and  kept  it  for 
myself,  I  should  only  spoil  the  picture — the  piece  I'd 
torn  out  wouldn't  be  any  good  to  me  away  from  the 
rest." 

"  I  can't  f oiler  you,"  said  Reuben  gruffly. 

"  Now  don't  pretend  to  be  stupid — don't  pretend  you 
can't  understand  anything  but  turnips." 

"  And  doan't  pretend  you  can't  understand  naun  but 
picturs.  A  good  solid  turnup  in  real  life  is  worth  a 
dozen  pretty  gals  in  picturs." 

"  That's  right — have  the  courage  of  your  earthiness. 
But  don't  try  to  make  me  think  that  when  you  look  out 


218  SUSSEX    GORSE 

of  the  window  at  Boarzell,  you  don't  see  the  sky 
beyond  it." 

"  And  doan't  you  try  and  make  out  as  when  you're 
looking  at  the  sky  you  doan't  see  Boarzell  standing  in 
between." 

"  I  don't  try  and  make  it  out.  I  see  your  point  of 
view,  but  it's  only  '  in  between  '  me — and  you — and 
something  greater." 

"  Rubbidge  !  "  said  Reuben. 

He  always  came  away  from  these  wrangles  with  a 
feeling  as  if  he  had  been  standing  on  his  head.  He  was 
not  used  to  mental  scoutings  and  reconnoitrings.  Also, 
he  felt  sometimes  that  Alice  was  laughing  at  him,  which 
irritated  him,  not  so  much  because  she  mocked  as 
because  he  could  never  be  really  sure  whether  she 
mocked  or  not.  Her  laughter  seemed  to  come  from  the 
remotest,  most  exalted  part  of  her.  The  gulfs  between 
their  points  of  view  never  gaped  so  wide  as  when  she 
laughed. 

§10. 

Reuben's  constant  visits  to  Cheat  Land  were  soon 
noticed  at  Odiam,  and  every  advantage  was  taken  of 
them.  A  period  of  licence  set  in.  Richard  read  Anne 
Bar  don's  Homer  quite  openly  by  the  kitchen  fire,  Caro 
dropped  tears  over  East  Lynne  in  the  dairy,  and 
Jemmy  spent  long  tarry  hours  at  Rye,  coming  home 
with  a  rank  chew  in  his  mouth,  and  sailors'  oaths  to 
salt  his  work  on  the  farm. 

Tilly  had  private  affairs  of  her  own  which  occasionally 
led  her  out  on  Boarzell  of  an  afternoon.  She  always 
took  her  sewing,  for  she  dared  not  be  behindhand  with 
it.  Strangely  enough,  in  spite  of  Jemmy's  and  Tilly's 
truancies,  the  work  was  somehow  got  through  as  usual, 
for  shortcomings  would  have  been  found  out  and 
punished  on  the  master's  return — or  worse  still,  he  might 
have  stayed  at  home.  For  the  first  time  a  certain  free- 


TREACHERIES  219 

masonry  was  established  between  the  brothers  and 
sisters.  Hitherto  their  rebellion  had  been  too  secret 
even  for  confederacy,  but  now  some  of  the  crushing 
weight  was  lifted,  and  they  could  combine — all  except 
Peter,  who  was  too  much  Reuben's  man  for  them  to 
trust  him  ;  luckily  he  was  rather  stupid.  So  Peter  did 
not  see  and  no  one  else  took  any  notice  if  Caro  read 
and  wept  over  sentimental  novels,  or  Jemmy  brought 
home  harbour  mud  on  his  shoes,  or  George,  who  was 
delicate  and  epileptic,  slept  away  an  hour  under  a  hay- 
stack, or  Richard  pondered  the  Iliad,  or  Tilly  ran 
out  on  the  Moor — even  though  she  went  to  meet  Realf 
of  Grandturzel. 

They  met  on  the  further  side  of  the  fir  clump,  on  the 
edge  of  Grandturzel's  inclosure.  Here  Tilly  would  sit 
under  a  gorse-bush  with  her  sewing,  while  young  Realf 
lay  along  the  grass  at  her  feet.  They  did  not  talk  much, 
for  Tilly  was  busy,  and  generally  had  her  mouth  full  of 
pins  ;  but  Realf 's  manhood  worshipped  her  as  she  sat 
there,  her  delicious  head  bowed,  and  stains  of  sunshine, 
with  sprinkled  gorse-petals,  in  her  hair.  He  loved  her 
little  determined  chin,  and  the  sweet  smudge  of 
freckles  on  her  nose.  Love  filled  their  simplest 
actions,  kindled  their  simplest  words ;  it  dreamed 
in  their  eyes  and  laughed  on  their  lips ;  its 
silences  linked  them  closer  than  the  most  passionate 
embraces. 

Both  unconsciously  dreaded  the  time  when  they 
should  demand  more  of  each  other — when  the  occasional 
enlacing  of  their  hands  would  no  longer  be  enough  to  open 
Paradise,  when  from  sweet  looking  and  longing  they 
would  have  to  pass  into  the  bitterness  of  action.  Tilly, 
though  essentially  practical  and  determined,  was  enjoy- 
ing her  first  visit  to  faery,  and  also  inherited  her  mother's 
gift  of  languor.  She  basked  in  those  hours  of  sun  and 
bees.  She,  like  her  father,  was  passing  for  the  first 
time  into  a  life  outside  the  dominion  of  the  farm — but, 


220  SUSSEX    GORSE 

whereas  he  fought  it,  and  sought  it  only  to  fight  it,  she 
submitted  to  it  as  to  a  caress. 

She  cared  nothing  for  Odiam  ;  it  was  no  thought  of 
disloyalty  to  it  and  her  father,  of  breaking  from  her 
service,  which  made  her  mark  time  in  dreams.  As  the 
weeks  went  by  she  felt  more  and  more  the  hatefulness 
of  the  yoke.  She  now  had  a  standard  of  comparison  by 
which  to  judge  Reuben  and  Odiam.  She  saw  herself  and 
her  brothers  and  her  sister  more  and  more  as  victims. 
Other  farmers'  children  were  not  slaves.  Other  farms 
did  not  hang  like  sucking  incubuses  on  boys'  and  girls' 
backs,  draining  all  the  youth  and  joy  and  sport  out  of 
them. 

It  made  her  blood  boil  to  think  of  Robert  and  Albert 
in  their  exile.  Robert  had  now  been  released  from  gaol, 
and  had  been  sent  by  a  charitable  society  to  Australia. 
Reuben  had  refused  to  move  a  hand  to  help  him.  As 
for  Albert,  a  few  months  ago  a  piteous  letter  had 
arrived,  begging  for  money.  He  had,  through  Mr. 
Hedges,  found  work  on  a  small  Radical  paper  which 
soon  came  to  grief,  and  since  then  had  been  practically 
starving,  having  had  no  success  as  a  freelance.  A  friend 
of  his  wanted  to  start  a  weekly  review  —  Tory  this  time, 
for  Albert's  politics  were  subservient  to  occasion  —  and 
only  required  funds.  Did  Reuben  feel  prepared  to  make 
an  investment  ?  Thus  poor  Albert  cloaked  and  trimmed 
his  begging. 

Of  course  Reuben  had  refused  to  help  him,  and  Tilly 
had  been  unable  to  get  any  money  out  of  Pete.  Her 
heart  bled  for  her  brothers,  and  at  the  same  time  she 
could  not  help  envying  their  freedom,  though  one 
enjoyed  it  as  a  beggar  and  the  other  as  a  felon. 


At  last  the  crisis  came  —  through  George,  the  youngest, 
least-considered  son  at  Odiam.  He  had  always  been  a 
weakling,  as  if  Naomi  had  passed  into  his  body  her  own 


TREACHERIES  221 

passionate  distaste  for  life.  Also,  as  is  common  with 
epileptic  children,  his  intellect  was  not  very  bright.  It 
had  been  the  habit  to  spare  him,  even  Reuben  had  done 
so  within  reason.  But  he  should  not  really  have  worked 
at  all,  or  only  in  strict  moderation — certainly  he  should 
not  have  been  sent  out  that  October  evening  to  dig  up 
the  bracken  roots  on  the  new  land.  Tilly  expostulated 
— "  Anyhow  he  didn't  ought  to  work  alone  " — but 
Reuben  was  angry  with  the  boy,  whom  he  had  caught 
loafing  once  or  twice  that  day,  and  roughly  packed  him  off. 

He  himself  went  over  to  Moor's  Cottage  about  a  load 
of  trifolium,  and  returning  in  the  darkness  by  Cheat 
Land  was  persuaded  to  stay  to  supper.  That  was  one  of 
the  nights  when  he  did  not  like  Alice  Jury — he  some- 
times went  through  the  experience  of  disliking  her, 
which  was  an  adventure  in  itself,  so  wild  and  surprising 
was  it,  so  bewildering  to  remember  afterwards.  She 
seemed  a  little  colourless — she  was  generally  so  vivid 
that  he  noticed  and  resented  all  the  more  those  times 
when  her  shoulders  drooped  against  her  chair,  and  her 
little  face  looked  strangely  wistful  instead  of  eager.  It 
seemed  as  if  on  these  occasions  Alice  were  actually 
pleading  with  him.  She  lost  that  antagonism  which  was 
the  salt  of  their  relations,  instead  of  fighting  she  pleaded. 
Pleaded  for  what  ?  He  dared  not  ask  that  question,  in 
case  the  answer  should  show  him  some  strange  new 
Canaan  which  was  not  his  promised  land.  So  he  came 
away  muttering — "  only  a  liddle  stick  of  a  woman.  I 
like  gurt  women — I  like  'em  rosy,  I  like  'em  full-breasted. 
.  .  .  She'd  never  do  fur  me." 

He  tramped  home  through  the  darkness.  A  storm 
was  rising,  shaking  the  fir-plumes  of  Boarzell  against  a 
scudding  background  of  clouds  and  stars.  The  hedges 
whispered,  the  dead  leaves  rustled,  the  woods  sighed. 
Every  now  and  then  a  bellow  would  come  from  the 
Moor,  as  the  sou'wester  roared  up  in  a  gust,  then  a  low 
sobbing  followed  it  into  silence. 


222  SUSSEX    GORSE 

On  the  doorstep  Reuben  was  greeted  by  Tilly — where 
was  George  ?  He  had  not  been  in  to  supper. 

"  Have  you  looked  in  the  new  field  ?  " 

:<  Yes — Benjamin  went  round.    But  he  aun't  there." 

"  Well,  I  doan't  know  where  he  is." 

"  Reckon  he's  fallen  down  in  a  fit  somewhere  and 
died." 

Tilly  was  not  looking  at  all  like  Naomi  to-night. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Reuben,  resenting  her  manner. 

"  It  aun't  nonsense.  I  always  know  when  his  fits  are 
coming  on  because  he's  tired  and  can't  work  praaperly. 
He  was  like  that  to-day.  And  you — you  drove  him  out." 

Reuben  had  never  been  spoken  to  like  this  by  his 
daughter.  He  turned  on  her  angrily,  then  suddenly 
changed  his  mind.  For  the  first  time  he  really  saw 
what  a  fine  girl  she  was — all  that  Alice  was  not. 

"  We'll  go  and  look  for  him,"  he  said — "  send  out  the 
boys." 

All  that  night  they  hunted  for  George  on  Boarzell.  It 
was  pitch  dark.  Soon  great  layers  of  cloud  were  sagging 
over  the  stars,  and  Boarzell's  firs  were  lost  in  the  black- 
ness behind  them.  Reuben,  his  sons,  Beatup,  Piper, 
Handshut,  Boorman,  fought  the  dark  with  lanterns 
as  one  might  fight  Behemoth  with  pin-pricks.  They 
scattered  over  the  Moor,  searching  the  thorn-clumps 
and  gorse-thickets.  It  was  pretty  certain  that  he  was 
not  on  the  new  ground  by  Flightshot.  Richard  said 
openly  that  he  did  not  believe  in  the  fit  and  that  George 
had  run  away,  and — less  openly — that  it  was  a  good  job 
too.  The  other  boys,  however,  did  not  think  that  he 
had  enough  sense  to  run  away,  and  agreed  that  his 
condition  all  day  had  foretold  an  attack. 

Reuben  himself  believed  in  the  fit,  and  a  real  anxiety 
tortured  him  as  he  thrust  his  lantern  into  the  gaping 
caverns  of  bushes.  He  had  by  his  thoughtless  and 
excessive  zeal  allowed  Boarzell  to  rob  him  of  another 
man.  Of  course,  it  did  not  follow  that  George  was  dead, 


TREACHERIES  223 

but  unless  they  found  him  soon  it  was  quite  likely  that 
he  would  not  survive  exposure  on  such  a  night.  If  so, 
Reuben  had  only  himself  to  thank  for  it.  He  should 
have  listened  to  his  daughter,  and  either  let  George  off 
his  work  or  made  him  work  near  home.  He  did  not 
pretend  to  himself  that  he  loved  this  weakling  son,  or 
that  his  death  would  cause  his  fatherhood  much  grief, 
but  he  found  himself  with  increasing  definiteness 
brought  up  against  the  conviction  that  Boarzell  was 
beating  him,  wringing  its  own  out  of  him  by  slow, 
inexorable  means,  paying  him  back  a  hundredfold  for 
every  acre  he  took  or  furrow  he  planted. 

He  had  become  separated  from  the  other  searchers, 
and  was  alone  on  the  west  side  of  the  Moor.  The  wind 
barked  and  howled,  hurling  itself  upon  him  as  he  stood, 
beating  his  face  with  hail,  which  hissed  into  the  dead 
tangles  of  the  heather,  while  the  stripped  thorns  yapped 
and  rattled,  and  the  bushes  roared.  So  great  was  the 
tumult  that  he  seemed  to  fall  into  it  like  a  stone  into  a 
wave — it  passed  over  him,  round  him,  seemed  even  to 
pass  under  him,  he  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  solid 
ground.  The  blackness  was  impenetrable,  save  where 
his  lantern  stained  it  with  a  yellow  smudge.  He  shouted, 
but  his  voice  perished  in  the  din — it  seemed  as  if  his 
whole  man,  sight,  voice,  hearing,  and  sensation,  was 
blurring  into  the  storm,  as  if  Boarzell  had  swamped  him 
at  last,  made  him  merely  one  of  its  hundred  voices, 
mocking  the  manhood  which  had  tried  so  much  against 
its  earth. 

The  wind  seemed  to  be  laughing  at  him,  as  it  bellowed 
up  in  gusts,  struck  him,  sprayed  him,  roughed  his  hair 
out  madly,  smacked  his  cheeks,  drove  the  rain  into  his 
skin,  and  then  rumbled  away  with  a  hundred  chatterings 
and  sighings.  It  seemed  to  be  telling  him  that  as  his 
breath  was  to  this  wind  so  was  he  himself  to  Boarzell. 
The  wind  was  the  voice  of  the  Moor,  and  it  told  him 
that  in  fighting  Boarzell,  he  did  not  fight  the  mere  earth, 


224  SUSSEX    GORSE 

an  agglomeration  of  lime  and  clay  which  he  could  trample 
and  compel,  but  all  the  powers  behind  it.  In  arming 
himself  against  Boarzell  he  armed  himself  against  the 
whole  of  nature's  huge  resources,  the  winds,  the  storms, 
the  droughts,  the  early  and  the  latter  rain,  the  poisons 
in  plants,  and  the  death  in  stones,  the  lusts  which 
spilling  over  from  the  beasts  into  the  heart  of  man 
slay  him  from  within  himself.  He  had  armed  himself 
against  all  these,  and  once  again  the  old  words  sang  in 
his  head — "  Canst  thou  draw  out  Leviathan  with  a 
hook  ?  or  bore  his  jaw  through  with  a  thorn  ?  Will  he 
make  a  covenant  with  thee  ?  Wilt  thou  take  him  for  a 
servant  for  ever  ?  " 

He  had  shrunk  into  the  rattling  shelter  of  some  thorn- 
bushes.  They  scraped  their  boughs  like  grotesque 
violins,  and  every  other  moment  they  would  sweep  down 
over  him  and  shut  him  into  a  cavern  of  snapping  twigs. 
He  was  soaked  to  the  skin  and  his  teeth  chattered.  He 
lay  close  to  the  earth,  seeking  shelter  even  from  the 
skeleton  heather  which  writhed  woody  stems  all  round 
him.  He  cursed.  Must  he  spend  the  night  here,  lost 
and  grovelling,  to  listen  while  Boarzell  screeched  its 
triumph  over  his  cold,  drenched  body.  .  .  . 

"  Canst  thou  draw  out  Leviathan  with  a  hook  ?  or 
bore  his  jaw  through  with  a  thorn  ?  Will  he  make  a 
covenant  with  thee  ?  Wilt  thou  take  him  for  a  servant 
for  ever  ? 

"  His  heart  is  as  firm  as  a  stone ;  yea,  as  hard  as  a 
piece  of  the  nether  millstone. 

"  The  sword  of  him  that  layeth  at  him  cannot  hold  ; 
the  spear,  the  dart,  nor  the  habergeon. 

"  He  esteemeth  iron  as  straw,  and  brass  as  rotten 
wood. 

"  Sharp  stones  are  under  him  ..." 

A  crash  of  thunder  and  a  spit  of  lightning  tore  open 
the  sky,  and  for  a  moment  Reuben  saw  the  slope  of  the 
Moor  livid  in  the  flash,  and  the  crest  of  firs  standing 


TREACHERIES  225 

against  the  split  and  tumbling  clouds.  The  air  rang, 
screamed,  hissed,  rushed,  and  rumbled.  Reuben,  hardly 
knowing  what  he  did,  had  sprung  to  his  feet. 

"  I'll  have  wheat  growing  here  in  a  twelvemonth  !  " 
he  shouted. 


The  dawn  broke  over  Boarzell  like  a  reconciliation. 
The  clamouring  voices  of  wind  and  trees  were  still,  and 
only  a  low  sobbing  came  now  and  then  from  the  woods. 
In  the  sky  pale  streamers  of  rose  barred  and  striped  a 
spreading  violet.  One  or  two  clouds  flew  low,  and 
slowly  pilled  themselves,  scattering  into  the  fields.  On 
every  blade  of  grass  and  twig  of  thorn,  on  every  leaf  and 
spine,  glimmered  pearls  of  rain,  washing  the  air  with  a 
faint  scent  of  stagnant  water,  perfuming  it  with  the 
steams  of  sodden  grass. 

Reuben  crept  out  of  his  thorn  cavern  and  looked  down 
the  slope.  At  the  bottom  by  Socknersh  one  or  two 
lanterns  moved  through  the  dusk.  He  stiffly  threw  up 
his  arm  and  tried  to  shout.  His  throat  felt  cramped  and 
swollen,  and  it  was  not  till  after  one  or  two  attempts 
that  a  sound  pitifully  like  a  bleat  came  out  of  it.  A 
voice  answered  him  from  the  hollow,  and  then  he  saw 
that  they  were  carrying  something.  He  limped  pain- 
fully down  to  them.  Richard,  Boorman,  and  Handshut 
carried  a  hurdle  between  them,  and  on  the  hurdle  lay  a 
draggled  boy,  whose  clenched  hand  clutched  a  tuft  of 
earth  and  grass  as  a  victim  might  clutch  a  handful  of 
his  murderer's  hair. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  asked  Reuben. 

"  Yes,  maaster,"  said  Boorman. 

Richard's  mouth  twisted  in  contemptuous  silence — 
Handshut  being  young  and  silly  was  crying. 

"  He  wurn't  on  the  new  land,"  continued  Boorman, 
"  he'd  fallen  into  the  ditch  by  Socknersh  palings — that's 
why  we  cudn't  find  un.  Reckon  as  he'd  felt  the 


226  SUSSEX    GORSE 

fitses  coming  on  un,  and  tried  to  git  hoame,  pore 
souly." 

"  When  did  you  find  him  ?  " 

t(  Half  an  hour  agone.  He'd  bin  dead  for  hours, 
maaster.  He  must  have  choked  in  the  ditch — see,  his 
mouth  is  full  of  mud." 

Reuben  drew  back  with  a  shiver.  He  limped  behind 
the  little  procession  towards  Odiam,  slouching  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life.  In  spite  of  his  conquests  he  and 
Boarzell  still  were  quits,  still  had  to  prove  which  was 
the  better  man.  George,  lying  there  muddy,  white,  and 
crumpled,  was  a  sign  that^the  Moor  had  its  victories,  in 
spite  of  the  spreading  corn. 

He  looked  down  at  George — the  boy's  face  had  an 
unhuman  chalky  appearance  under  the  mudstains  ;  on 
the  forehead  a  vein  had  swollen  up  in  black  knots, 
others  showed  pale,  almost  aqueous,  through  the 
stretched  skin.  After  all,  George  was  the  weakest,  the 
best-spared  of  his  children.  This  thought  comforted 
and  stiffened  him  a  little,  and  he  went  into  the  house 
with  something  of  his  old  uprightness. 

The  other  children  were  in  the  kitchen.  They  had 
seen  their  dead  brother  from  the  window,  and  stood 
mute  and  tearless  as  he  was  carried  into  the  room. 
Reuben  gave  orders  for  him  to  be  taken  upstairs  and  the 
doctor  to  be  sent  for.  No  one  else  spoke.  Tilly's  breast 
heaved  stormily,  and  he  did  not  like  the  dull  blaze  in 
her  eyes.  Strange  to  say,  of  his  whole  family,  excepting 
Pete,  she  was  the  only  one  of  whom  he  was  not  faintly 
contemptuous.  She  had  spirit,  that  girl — he  prophesied 
that  she  would  turn  out  a  shrew. 

For  the  very  reason  that  he  could  not  despise  her,  he 
took  upon  himself  to  bully  her  now. 

"  Get  me  some  tea,"  he  said  roughly,  "  I'm  cold." 


TREACHERIES  227 


§13- 

Though  there  had  been  no  open  rupture,  from  that 
day  forward  Odiam  was  divided  into  two  camps.  On 
one  side  were  Reuben  and  Pete,  on  the  other,  Tilly  and 
Richard.  Benjamin  and  Caro  were  neutrals  ;  they  were 
indifferent  to  vital  issues,  one  engrossed  in  snatching 
holidays,  the  other  in  hankering  after  she  did  not  quite 
know  what.  Pete  had  always  been  a  good  son,  hard- 
working and  enthusiastic,  not  exactly  a  comrade,  but 
none  the  less  an  ally,  always  to  be  depended  on  and  now 
and  then  taken  into  confidence.  He  seemed  to  accept 
his  father's  attitude  towards  George's  death  and  to 
resent  Richard's  and  Tilly's.  That  spring  he  beat 
Squinty  Bream  at  Robertsbridge  Fair,  and  gave  half  the 
purse  to  Reuben  to  buy  a  chaff-cutter. 

Of  the  enemy  Tilly  was  the  most  effective — Reuben 
did  not  quite  know  how  to  deal  with  her.  His  inability 
to  despise  her  told  heavily  against  him.  Richard,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  despised  from  the  depths  of  his  heart. 
The  boy  was  insufferable,  for  he  still  had  his  old  knack 
of  saving  his  skin.  It  was  nearly  always  impossible  to 
pick  any  definite  faults  in  his  work — it  was  wonderful 
how  he  managed  to  combine  unwillingness  with  efficiency. 
He  also  had  an  irritating  habit  of  speaking  correct 
English,  and  of  alluding  to  facts  and  events  of  which 
Reuben  had  never  heard  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  it 
impossible  for  him  not  to  show  his  ignorance. 

Reuben  never  lost  a  chance  of  baiting  him,  he  jibed 
at  his  squeamishness  and  fine  manners,  at  his  polite  way 
of  eating  and  the  trouble  he  took  to  clean  his  nails  ;  he 
despised  him  all  the  more  for  occasionally  getting  the 
better  of  him,  verbally  at  any  rate,  in  these  encounters. 
!  One  night  at  supper  Reuben,  having  actually  succeeded 
in  finding  this  sneering  son  at  fault,  abused  him  roundly 
for  the  shocking  condition  of  the  ewes'  fleeces.  Richard 


228  SUSSEX    GORSE 

had  the  bad  sense  to  quote  Shakespeare,  whereat  Reuben 
told  him  that  if  he  could  not  speak  English  he  could 
leave  the  room.  Richard  replied  that  he  would  be  very 
pleased  to  do  so,  as  certain  people's  table-manners  made 
supper  rather  an  ordeal.  Reuben  helped  him  out  with 
a  kick  most  vulgarly  placed. 

The  next  day  Backfield  was  due  at  an  auction  at 
Northiam,  but  before  leaving  he  ordered  Richard  to 
clean  out  the  pig-sties.  It  was  not,  properly  speaking, 
his  work  at  all,  but  Reuben  hoped  it  would  make  him 
sick,  or  that  he  would  refuse  to  obey  and  thus  warrant 
his  father  knocking  him  down. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Richard  without  a  tremor. 
"  Oh,   thank  you,"   said  Reuben,  bowing  in  mock 
politeness,  and  trying  to  copy  his  clipped  English. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  rode  off,  and  the  family  separated 
to  their  tasks,  or  to  such  evasions  of  them  as  were 
possible  in  the  master's  absence. 

Tilly  cleared  the  table  and  began  to  prepare  the 
dinner.  She  had  promised  the  boys  a  bag  pudding,  and 
must  start  it  early.  She  had  not  been  cooking  more 
than  half  an  hour  when  the  door  opened,  and  Richard 
came  in,  dressed  in  a  neat  black  suit  with  a  stiff  Glad- 
stone collar.  His  hair  was  nicely  brushed,  and  he  carried 
a  pair  of  gloves  and  a  little  valise. 
"  Oh  !  "  cried  Tilly. 

"I'm  off,"  said  Richard  shortly,  banging  down  his 
valise  on  the  table. 
«  Off !— where  ?  " 
"  To  London." 
Tilly  gaped  at  him. 

"  I'm  sick  of  all  this,  I'm  sick  of  the  old  man  and  his 
beastliness.  Miss  Bardon  is  lending  me  money  to  go  to 
London  University,  and  perhaps  I  shall  read  for  the 
Bar." 

"  The  Bar,"  repeated  Tilly  vaguely. 

"  Yes,  I've  learned  a  heap  of  Latin  and  other  things 


TREACHERIES  229 

during  the  last  five  years,  and  two  or  three  years  at  the 
University  ought  to  be  all  I  want.  Miss  Bardon's  taught 
me — I  owe  everything  to  her." 

"  I  must  say  as  how  youVe  kept  it  dark/' 

She  knew  of  his  friendship  with  Anne  Bardon,  but  had 
never  expected  it  to  bear  such  generous  fruit. 

"  Well,  it  would  never  have  done  if  the  old  man  had 
got  to  know  of  it.  Good  heavens,  Tilly  !  How  can  you 
live  on  with  that  old  brute  ?  " 

"  Maybe  I  shan't  much  longer,"  said  Tilly,  looking 
down  at  her  rolling-pin. 

Richard  stared  at  her  for  a  moment — "  I'm  glad  to 
hear  it.  But  the  others — oh,  my  dear  girl,  this  is  dam- 
nable !  " 

Tilly  sighed. 

"  The  law  ought  to  suppress  such  men — it  ought  to  be 
a  criminal  offence  to  revert  to  type — the  primordial 
gorilla." 

"  But  faather's  a  clever  man — Albert  always  used  to 
say  so." 

"  Yes,  in  a  cunning,  brutish  sort  of  way — like  a 
gorilla  when  he's  set  his  heart  on  a  particular  cocoanut. 
Boarzell's  his  cocoanut,  and  he's  done  some  smart 
things  to  get  it — and  in  one  way  at  least  he's  above  the 
gorilla,  for  he  can  enslave  other  people  of  superior 
intelligence  to  sweat  under  his  orders  for  what  they  care 
nothing  about." 

"  We're  all  very  unlucky,"  said  Tilly,  "  to  have  been 
born  his  children.  But  one  by  one  we're  gitting  free. 
There'll  soon  be  only  Pete  and  Jemmy  and  Caro 
left." 

"  And  I  hope  to  God  they'll  have  the  wit  to  follow 
the  rest  of  us.  I'd  like  to  see  that  old  slave-driver  left 
quite  alone.  Heavens  !  I  could  have  strangled  him 
yesterday — I  should  have,  if  I  hadn't  had  this  to  look 
forward  to." 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  stay  in  London  ?  " 


230  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Miss  Bardon's  taken  some  rooms  for  me  in  Montagu 
Street." 

"  She's  good  to  you,  Richard." 

"  She's  an  angel  " — he  lifted  his  eyes,  and  his  mouth 
became  almost  worshipful — "  she's  an  angel,  who's 
raised  me  out  of  hell.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  repay  her, 
but  she  doesn't  expect  it.  All  she  wants  is  my  success." 

"  I  wish  Caro  or  Jemmy  cud  meet  someone  like  her. 
I  doan't  think  as  Pete  minds." 

"  No,  he's  quite  the  young  gorilla.  Now  I  must  be 
off,  Tilly.  I'll  write  to  you." 

"  Oh,  woan't  faather  be  in  a  taking  !  " 

"  I  reckon — I  expect  he  will.  But  don't  you  mind 
him,  little  sister.  He  isn't  worth  it." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"  Good-bye.    Say  it  to  the  others  for  me." 

"  Good-bye — good  luck  to  you." 

.  .  .  And  he  was  gone — walking  past  the  window  in 
a  top-hat. 

§14- 

It  would  be  mere  politeness  to  describe  as  a  "  taking  " 
Reuben's  condition  when  he  heard  Richard  had  gone. 
He  was  in  a  stamping,  bellowing,  bloodshot  rage.  He 
sent  for  various  members  of  his  family,  questioned  them, 
stormed  at  them,  sent  them  away,  then  sent  for  them 
again.  He  boxed  Caro's  ears  because  she  cried — hitherto 
he  had  kept  his  hands  off  the  girls.  As  for  Tilly,  he 
would  have  liked  to  have  whipped  her — he  felt  sure 
that  somehow  it  was  all  her  doing — but  the  more  furious 
he  grew,  the  more  he  felt  himself  abashed  by  her  manner, 
at  once  so  soft  and  so  determined,  and  he  dared  do  no 
more  than  throw  his  boots  at  her. 

After  a  night  of  cursings  and  trampings  in  his  room, 
he  took  the  fermenting  dregs  of  his  wrath  to  Cheat 
Land.  It  was  queer  that  he  should  go  for  sympathy  to 
Alice  Jury,  who  was  chief  in  the  enemy's  camp.  But 


TREACHERIES  231 

though  he  knew  she  would  not  take  his  part,  she  would 
not  be  like  the  others,  leering  and  cackling.  She  would 
give  him  something  vital,  even  if  it  was  only  a  vital 
opposition.  That  was  all  the  difference  between  her  and 
everyone  else — she  opposed  him  not  because  she  was 
flabby  or  uninterested  or  enterpriseless,  but  because  she 
really  hated  what  he  strove  for.  She  was  his  one  strong 
candid  enemy,  so  he  went  to  her  as  his  only  friend. 

She  was  shocked  at  his  white  twitching  face  and 
bloodshot  eyes  ;  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  known 
him,  Reuben  came  to  her  bereft  of  that  triumphant  man- 
hood which  had  made  him  so  splendid  to  watch  in  his 
struggles. 

"  The  hound  !  "  he  cried,  striking  his  fists  together, 
"  the  miserable,  cowardy  hound  ! — gone  and  left  me — 
gone  to  be  a  gentleman,  the  lousy  pig.  Oh,  Lard,  I 
wish  as  I  had  him  in  these  hands  o'  mine  ! — I'd  maake  a 
gentleman  of  him  !  " 

Alice,  as  he  expected,  had  caustic  for  him  rather  than 
balm. 

"  Once  again,"  she  said  slowly',  "  I  ask  you — is  it 
worth  while  ?  " 

"  Wot's  worth  while  ?  " 

"  You  know.  I  asked  you  that  question  the  first  or 
second  time  I  saw  you.  No  one  had  ever  asked  it  you 
before,  and  you  would  have  liked  to  beat  me." 

"  I  shud  like  to  beat  you  now — talking  of  wot  you 
know  naun  about." 

"  I  daresay — but  I'm  not  your  son  or  your  daughter 
or  your  wife " 

"  I  never  beat  my  wife." 

"  Chivalrous,  humane  man  ! — well,  anyhow  I'm  not 
anyone  you  can  beat,  so  I  dare  ask — is  it  worth  while  ?  " 

"  And  I  ask  wot  d'you  mean  by  '  worth  while  '  ?  " 
'  You  know  that  it's  Boarzell  and  your  farm  which 
have  lost  you  your  boys." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  sort." 


232  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Well,  would  Robert  have  stolen  money,  or  Albert 
disgraced  your  name,  to  get  free,  if  you  and  your  farm 
hadn't  made  them  slaves  ?  If  you  hadn't  been  a  heart- 
less slave-driver  would  George  have  died  the  other 
night  alone  on  the  Moor  ? — or  would  Richard  have 
taken  advantage  of  a  neighbour's  charity  to  escape 
from  you  ?  Don't  you  see  that  your  ambition  has 
driven  you  to  make  slaves  of  your  children  ?  " 

"  Well,  they  woan't  wark  fur  me  of  their  free  will. 
Lard  knows  I've  tried  to  interest  'em.  ..." 

"  But  how  can  you  expect  them  to  be  interested  ? 
Your  ambition  means  nothing  to  them." 

"  It  ought  to — Odiam's  their  home  jest  as  it's  mine." 

"  But  don't  you  see  that  you've  forced  them  to  give 
up  all  the  sweet  things  of  life  for  it  ? — Robert  his  love, 
and  Albert  his  poetry,  and  Richard  his  education." 

"  Well,  I  gave  up  all  the  sweet  things  of  life,  as  you 
call  'em — and  why  shudn't  they  ?  " 

"  Because  you  gave  those  things  up  of  your  free  will 
— they  were  made  to  give  them  up  by  force.  You've 
no  right  to  starve  and  deny  other  people  as  you  have 
to  starve  and  deny  yourself." 

"  I  doan't  see  that.    Wot  I  can  do,  they  can." 

"  But — as  experience  has  taught  you — they  won't. 
You  can  see  now  what  your  slave-driving's  brought  you 
to — you've  lost  your  slaves." 

"  Well,  and  I  reckon  they  wurn't  much  loss,  nuther  " 
— the  caustic  was  healing  after  all- — "  Robert  wur  a  fool 
wot  didn't  know  how  to  steal  a  ten-pound  note,  Albert 
wur  always  mooning  and  wasting  his  time,  and  George 
wur  a  pore  thing  not  worth  his  keep.  As  for  Richard 
— that  Richard — who  wants  a  stuck-up,  dentical,  high- 
nosed,  genteel  swell  about  the  plaace  ?  I  reckon  as  I'm 
well  shut  of  the  whole  four  of  'em.  They  wurn't  worth 
the  food  they  ate,  surely e  !  " 

"  That's  what  strikes  me  as  so  pathetic." 

"  Wot  ?  " 


TREACHERIES  233 

"  That  you  should  be  able  to  comfort  yourself 
with  the  thought  that  they  weren't  worth  much  to 
vou  as  a  farmer.  What  were  they  worth  to  you  as  a 
father  ?  " 

"  Naun." 

"  Quite  so — and  that's  what  makes  me  pity  you/' 
and  suddenly  her  eyes  kindled,  blazed,  as  with  her 
spirit  itself  for  fuel — "  I  pity  you,  I  pity  you — poor, 
poor  man  !  " 

"  Adone  do  wud  that — though  you  sound  more  as  if 
you  wur  in  a  black  temper  wud  me  than  as  if  you  pitied 
me." 

"  I  am  angry  with  you  just  because  I  pity  you.  It's 
a  shame  that  I  should  have  to  pity  you — you're  such  a 
splendid  man.  It  ought  to  be  impossible  to  pity  you, 
but  I  do — I  pity  you  from  my  soul.  Think  what  you're 
missing.  Think  what  your  children  might  have  been 
to  you.  How  you  might  have  loved  that  dear  stupid 
Robert — how  proud  you  might  have  been  of  Albert, 
and  of  Richard  leaving  you  for  a  professional  career  .  .  . 
and  poor  little  George,  just  because  he  was  weak  and 
unlike  the  rest,  he  might  have  been  more  to  you  than 
them  all.  Then  there's  your  brother  Harry " 

"  Come,  come — stick  to  the  truth.  I  aun't  to  blame 
for  Harry." 

"  But  can't  you  see  that  he's  the  chief  part  of  the 
tragedy  you're  bringing  on  yourself  and  everyone  ? — 
He's  the  type,  he's  the  chorus,  the  commentary  on 
every  act.  Reuben,  can't  you  see — oh,  why  won't  you 
see  ? — he's  you,  yourself,  as  you  really  are  !  " 

"  Nonsense  ! — doan't  be  a  fool,  my  gal." 

r<  Yes — you — blind,  crazy  with  your  ambition,  re- 
pulsive and  alone  in  it.  Don't  you  see  ?  " 

He  smiled  grimly — "  I  doan't." 

"  No — you  don't  see  this  hideous  thing  that's  pur- 
suing you,  that's  stripping  you  of  all  that  ought  to  be 
yours,  that's  making  you  miss  a  hundred  beautiful 


234  SUSSEX    GORSE 

things,    that's   driving   you   past   all   your   joys — this 
Boarzell.  .  .  ." 

— aun't  driving  me,  anyhow.    I'm  fighting  it." 
"  No/'  said  Alice.    "  It's  I  who  am  fighting  Boarzell." 


§15- 

Early  the  next  year,  Tilly  married  Realf  of  Grand- 
turzel. 

Reuben  received  the  blow  in  silence — it  stunned  him. 
He  did  not  go  over  to  Cheat  Land — something,  he 
scarcely  knew  what,  kept  him  away.  In  the  long  yellow 
twilights  he  wandered  on  Boarzell.  The  rain-smelling 
March  wind  scudded  over  the  grass,  over  the  wet 
furrows  of  his  cornfields,  over  the  humming  tops  of  the 
firs  that,  with  the  gorse  splashed  round  their  trunks, 
marked  the  crest  of  the  Moor  and  of  his  ambition. 
Would  they  ever  be  his,  those  firs  ?  Would  he  ever  tear 
up  that  gorse  and  fling  it  on  the  bonfire,  as  he  had  torn 
up  the  gorse  on  the  lower  slopes  and  burned  it  with  roars 
and  cracklings  and  smoke  that  streamed  over  the  Moor 
to  Totease  ?  Perhaps  Realf  would  have  the  firs  and  the 
gorse,  and  pile  that  gorgeous  bonfire.  Tilly  would  put 
him  up  to  her  father's  game — Reuben's  imagination 
again  failed  to  conceive  the  man  who  did  not  want 
Boarzell — she  would  betray  Odiam's  ambitions,  and 
babble  its  most  vital  secrets.  Tilly,  Reuben  told 
Boarzell,  was  a  bitch. 

It  became  now  all  the  more  necessary  to  smash  Realf, 
He  could  no  longer  be  content  with  keeping  just  ahead 
of  him  ;  he  must  establish  a  sort  of  two-power  standard, 
and  crush  his  rival  to  the  earth.  That  was  not  a  good 
summer  for  expansion — a  drought  baked  up  the  greater 
part  of  Sussex,  and  there  was  an  insect  plague  in  the 
hops — nevertheless,  Reuben  bought  thirty-five  acres  of 
Boarzell,  on  the  east  slope,  by  the  road.  He  was 
tormented  by  a  fear  that  Realf  would  buy  the  land  if  he 


TREACHERIES  235 

did  not,  and,  moreover,  during  May  two  boards  had 
appeared  advertising  it  as  "  an  eligible  building  site  "  ; 
which  was  possibly  bluff,  possibly  unusual  cunning  on 
the  part  of  Flightshot,  made  resourceful  by  its  straits. 

He  no  longer  had  any  direct  intercourse  with  the 
Bardons.  Their  latest  impropriety  had  put  them  beyond 
even  the  favour  of  a  casual  nod.  If  they  chose  to  break 
up  his  family  they  must  take  the  consequences.  He 
only  wished  he  could  break  up  their  estate,  sell  their 
rat-holed  old  Manor  over  their  heads,  and  leave  them 
unprotected  by  landed  property  to  the  sure  workings  of 
their  own  incompetence. 

He  did  not  fail  to  show  his  neighbours  how  he  despised 
Flightshot,  and  the  more  humorously  inclined  among 
them  were  never  tired  of  asking  how  soon  it  would  be 
before  Richard  married  Anne. 

"  Your  family  seems  to  be  in  a  marrying  way  jest 
now,  Mus'  Backfield — there's  your  daughter  made  an 
unaccountable  fine  match,  and  it's  only  nat'ral  as  young 
Richard  shud  want  to  do  as  well  fur  himself." 

Reuben  treated  these  irreverences  with  scorn.  Nothing 
would  make  him  abate  a  jot  of  his  dignity.  On  the 
contrary,  his  manner  and  his  presence  became  more  and 
more  commanding.  He  drove  a  splendid  blood  mare  in 
his  gig,  smoked  cigars  instead  of  pipes,  and  wore  stand- 
up  collars  about  four  inches  high — when  he  was  not 
working,  for  it  had  not  struck  him  that  it  was  undignified 
to  work,  and  he  still  worked  harder  on  his  farm  than  the 
worst-paid  pig-boy. 

He  was  more  stoutly  resolved  than  ever  that  the  mob 
of  small  farmers  and  incompetents  should  not  gape  at 
his  misfortunes.  So  he  hid  under  a  highly  repulsive 
combination  of  callousness  and  swagger  his  grief  for  his 
sons'  defection,  his  rage  and  shame  at  Tilly's  marriage, 
and  his  growing  anxiety  about  Odiam.  That  summer 
had  been  terrible — a  long  drought  had  been  followed 
too  late  by  thundery  rains.  His  harvest  had  been 


236  SUSSEX    GORSE 

parched  and  scrappy,  most  of  the  roots  shedding  their 
seed  before  reaping  ;  the  green-fly  had  spoiled  several 
acres  of  hops,  which  otherwise  would  have  been  the  one 
bright  patch  in  the  season  ;  his  apples  and  pears  had 
been  eaten  by  wasps  ;  and  then  a  few  untimely  showers 
had  beaten  down  two  fields  of  barley  yet  unreaped  and 
his  only  decent  crop  of  aftermath  hay. 

If  Grandturzel  had  fared  as  badly  he  could  have  borne 
it,  but  Grandturzel,  though  scarred,  came  out  of  the 
summer  less  battered  than  he.  Realf's  oats,  being  in  a 
more  sheltered  position,  did  no  private  threshing  of 
their  own  ;  his  hops  for  the  most  part  escaped  the 
blight,  and  though  he  lost  a  good  deal  on  his  plums,  his 
apples  were  harvested  at  a  record,  and  brought  him  in 
nearly  ten  pounds  an  acre.  On  both  farms  the  milk  had 
done  badly,  but  as  Realf's  dairy  business  was  not  so 
extensive  as  Backfield's,  he  was  better  able  to  stand  its 
partial  collapse. 

Reuben  felt  that  Tilly  was  at  the  bottom  of  his 
rival's  success.  She  was  practical  and  saving,  the  very 
virtues  which  Realf  lacked  and  the  want  of  which  might 
have  wrecked  him.  She  doubtless  was  responsible  for 
the  good  condition  of  his  orchards  and  the  immunity  of 
his  hops  ;  she  had  probably  told  her  husband  of  that 
insect-spray  of  her  father's — which  had  failed  him  that 
summer,  being  too  much  diluted  by  the  fool  who  mixed 
it,  but  had  proved  a  miracle  of  devastation  in  other 
years. 

He  wanted  to  smash  Tilly  even  more  than  he  wanted 
to  smash  Realf.  He  had  seen  her  twice  since  her 
marriage — meeting  her  once  in  Rye,  and  once  on  Boar- 
zell — and  each  sight  had  worked  him  into  a  greater  rage. 
Her  little  figure  had  strengthened  and  filled  out,  her 
demure  self-confidence  had  increased,  her  prettiness  was 
even  more  adorable  now  that  the  rose  had  deepened  on 
her  cheeks  and  her  gowns  strained  over  her  breast ; 
she  was  enough  to  fill  any  man  with  wrath  at  the  joke  of 


TREACHERIES  237 

things.  Tilly  ought  to  be  receiving  the  wages  of  her 
treachery  in  weariness  and  anxiety,  fading  colour  and 
withering  flesh — and  here  she  was  all  fat  and  rosy  and 
happy,  well-fed  and  well-beloved.  He  hated  her  and 
called  her  a  harlot — because  she  had  betrayed  Odiam 
for  hire  and  trafficked  in  its  shame. 


§16. 

He  had  been  forced  to  engage  a  woman  to  help  Caro 
in  the  house,  and  also  a  shepherd  for  Richard's  work. 
His  family  had  been  whittled  down  to  almost  nothing. 
Only  Caro,  Pete,  and  Jemmy  were  left  out  of  his  eight 
splendid  boys  and  girls.  Caro,  Pete,  Jemmy,  and 
hideous,  mumbling  Harry — he  surveyed  the  four  of 
them  with  contemptuous  scowls.  Pete  was  the  only  one 
who  was  worth  anything — Caro  and  Jemmy  would  turn 
against  him  if  they  had  the  slightest  chance  and  forsake 
him  with  the  rest.  As  for  Harry,  he  was  a  grotesque,  an 
image,  a  hideous  fum — "  Reuben  himself  as  he  really 
was."  He  !  He  ! 

The  weeks  wore  on  and  it  dawned  on  him  that  he  must 
pull  himself  together  for  a  fresh  campaign.  He  must 
have  more  warriors — he  could  not  fight  Boarzell  with 
only  traitors  and  hirelings.  He  must  marry  again. 

It  was  some  time  since  the  abstract  idea  of  marriage 
had  begun  to  please  him,  but  lately  the  abstract  of 
marriage  had  always  led  to  the  concrete  of  Alice  Jury,  so 
he  had  driven  it  from  his  thoughts.  Now,  more  and 
more  clearly,  he  saw  that  he  must  marry.  He  wanted  a 
woman  and  he  wanted  children,  so  he  must  marry.  But 
he  must  not  marry  Alice. 

Of  late  he  had  resumed  his  visits  to  Cheat  Land,  dis- 
continued for  a  while  at  Tilly's  marriage.  The  attraction 
of  Alice  Jury  was  as  strong,  unfathomable,  and  un- 
accountable as  ever.  Since  the  stormy  interview  after 
Richard's  desertion  they  had  not  discussed  his  ambitions 


238  SUSSEX    GORSE 

for  Odiam  and  Boarzell,  but  that  meeting  was  none  the 
less  stamped  on  Reuben's  memory  with  a  gloomy 
significance.  It  was  not  that  Alice's  arguments  had 
affected  him  at  all — she  had  not  penetrated  to  the 
springs  of  his  enterprise,  she  had  not  touched  or  con- 
jured the  hidden  part  of  him  in  which  his  ambition's 
roots  were  twined  round  all  that  was  vital  and  sacred  in 
the  man.  But  somehow  she  had  expressed  her  own 
attitude  with  an  almost  sinister  clearness — "  It's  I  who 
am  fighting  Boarzell."  What  should  she  fight  it  for  ? — 
imagine  that  she  fought  it,  rather,  for  a  woman  could 
not  really  fight  Boarzell.  She  was  fighting  it  for  him. 
She  wanted  him. 

He  knew  that  Alice  wanted  him,  and  he  knew  that  he 
wanted  Alice.  He  did  not  know  why  he  wanted  Alice 
any  more  than  he  knew  why  Alice  wanted  him.  "  Wot 
is  she  ? — a  liddle  stick  of  a  creature.  And  I  like  big 
women." 

There  was  something  in  the  depths  of  him  that  cried 
for  her,  something  which  had  never  moved  or  cried  in 
him  before.  In  spite  of  her  lack  of  beauty  and  beguile- 
ment,  in  spite  of  her  hostility  to  all  his  darling  schemes, 
there  was  something  in  him  to  which  Alice  actually  and 
utterly  belonged.  He  did  not  understand  it,  he  could 
not  analyse  it,  he  scarcely  indeed  realised  it — all  he  felt 
was  the  huge  upheaval,  the  conflict  that  it  brought,  all 
the  shouting  and  the  struggling  of  the  desperate  and 
motiveless  craving  that  he  felt  for  her — a  hunger  in  him 
calling  through  days  and  nights,  in  spite  of  her  insig- 
nificance, her  aloofness,  her  silences,  her  antagonism. 

"  I  reckon  as  how  I  must  be  in  love." 

That  was  the  conclusion  he  came  to  after  much  heavy 
pondering.  He  had  never  been  truly  in  love  before.  He 
had  wanted  women  for  various  reasons,  either  for  their 
charm  and  beauty,  or  because,  as  in  Naomi's  case,  of  their 
practical  use  to  him.  Alice  had  no  beauty,  and  a  charm 
too  subtle  for  him  to  realise,  though  as  a  matter  of  fact 


TREACHERIES  239 

the  whole  man  was  plastic  to  it — as  for  practical  useful- 
ness, she  was  poor,  delicate,  unaccustomed  to  country 
life,  and  hostile  to  all  his  most  vital  ambitions.  She 
would  not  bring  him  wealth  or  credit,  she  was  not  likely 
to  bear  him  healthy  children — and  yet  he  loved  her. 

Sometimes,  roaming  through  murky  dusks,  he 
realised  in  the  dim  occasional  flashes  which  illuminate 
the  non-thinking  man,  that  he  was  up  against  the 
turning-point  of  his  fight  with  Boarzell.  If  he  married 
Alice  it  would  be  the  token  of  what  had  always  seemed 
more  unimaginable  than  his  defeat — his  voluntary  sur- 
render. Sometimes  he  told  himself  fiercely  that  he 
could  fight  Boarzell  with  Alice  hanging,  so  to  speak,  over 
his  arm  ;  but  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  could  not. 
He  could  not  have  both  Alice  arid  Boarzell. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  one  day  at  Cheat  Land  he 
nearly  fell  at  her  feet  and  asked  her  to  be  his  ruin. 

It  was  a  March  twilight,  cold  and  rustling,  and  tart 
with  the  scents  of  newly  turned  furrows.  Reuben  sat 
with  Alice  in  the  kitchen,  and  every  now  and  then 
Jury's  wretched  house-place  would  shake  as  the  young 
gale  swept  up  rainless  from  the  east  and  poured  itself 
into  cracks  and  chimneys.  Alice  was  sewing  as  usual — 
it  struck  Reuben  that  she  was  very  quick  and  useful 
with  her  fingers,  whatever  might  be  her  drawbacks  in 
other  ways.  Sometimes  she  had  offered  to  read  poetry 
to  him,  and  had  once  bored  him  horribly  with  In 
Memoriam,  but  as  he  had  taken  no  trouble  to  hide  his 
feelings  she  had  to  his  great  relief  announced  her  inten- 
tion of  casting  no  more  pearls  before  swine. 

She  was  silent,  and  the  firelight  playing  in  her  soft, 
lively  eyes  gave  her  a  kind  of  mystery  which  for  the 
first  time  allowed  Reuben  a  glimpse  into  the  sources  of 
her  attraction.  She  was  utterly  unlike  anything  there 
was  or  had  been  in  his  life,  the  only  thing  he  knew  that 
did  not  smell  of  earth.  The  pity  of  it  was  that  he  loved 
that  strong-smelling  earth  so  much. 


240  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Alice,"  he  said  suddenly — "  Do  you  think  as  how 
you  could  ever  care  about  Boarzell  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  quite  sure  I  couldn't." 

!'  Not  ever  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  hate  it.  It's  spoiling  your  life.  It's 
making  a  beast  and  a  maniac  of  you.  You  think  of 
nothing — absolutely  nothing — but  a  miserable  rubbish- 
heap  that  most  people  would  be  throwing  their  old 
kettles  on." 

"  That's  just  the  point,  my  gal.  Where  most  foalkses 
'ud  be  throwing  old  kettles,  I  shall  be  growing  wheat." 

"  And  what  good  will  that  do  you  ?  " 

"  Good  ! — when  I've  two  hundred  acres  sown  with 
grain  !  " 

"  Yes,  grain  that's  fertilised  with  the  rotting  remains 
of  all  that  ought  to  have  made  your  life  good  and 
sweet." 

"  You  woan't  understand.  There's  naun  in  the  world 
means  anything  to  me  but  my  farm.  Oh,  Alice,  if  you 
could  only  see  things  wud  my  eyes  and  stand  beside  me 
instead  of  agaunst  me." 

"  Then  there  would  be  no  more  friendship  between  us. 
What  unites  us  is  the  fact  that  we  are  fighting  each 
other." 

"  Doan't  talk  rubbidge,  liddle  gal.  It's  because  I  see. 
all  the  fight  there  is  in  you  that  I'd  sooner  you  fought 
for  me  than  agaunst  me.  Couldn't  you  try,  Alice  ?  " 

His  voice  had  sunk  very  low,  almost  to  sweetness.  A 
soft  flurry  of  pink  went  over  her  face,  and  her  eyelids 
drooped.  Then  suddenly  she  braced  herself,  pulled  her- 
self taut,  grew  combative  again,  though  her  voice  shook. 

"  No,  Reuben,  I  could  never  do  anything  but  fight 
your  schemes.  I  think  you  are  wasting  and  spoiling 
your  life,  and  there's  no  use  expecting  me  to  stand  by 
you." 


TREACHERIES  241 

He  now  realised  the  full  extent  of  his  peril,  because 
for  the  first  time  he  saw  her  position  unmasked.  She 
would  never  beguile  him  with  the  thought  that  she 
could  help  him  in  his  life's  desire  ;  she  would  not  alter 
the  essential  flavour  of  their  relationship  to  suit  his  taste 
— rather  she  would  force  him  to  swallow  it,  she  would 
subdue  by  strength  and  not  by  stealth,  and  fight  him  to 
the  end. 

He  must  escape,  for  if  he  surrendered  now  the  battle 
was  over,  and  he  would  have  betrayed  Boarzell  the 
loved  to  something  he  loved  less — loved  less,  he  knew  it, 
though  he  wavered. 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  The  kitchen  was  dark,  with 
eddying  sweeps  of  shadow  in  the  corners  which  the  fire- 
light caressed — while  a  single  star  put  faint  ghostly 
romance  into  the  window. 

"  I — I  must  be  gitting  back  home." 

Alice  rose  too,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  surprised  that 
she  did  not  try  to  keep  him  ;  instead,  she  said  : 

"  It's  late." 

He  moved  a  step  or  two  towards  the  door,  and 
suddenly  she  added  in  a  low  broken  voice  : 

"  But  not  too  late." 

The  floor  seemed  to  rise  towards  him,  and  the  star  in 
the  window  to  dance  down  into  Castweasel  woods  and 
up  again. 

Alice  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  face  bloomed 
with  dusk  and  firelight,  her  hands  stretched  out  towards 
him.  .  .  . 

There  was  silence,  in  which  a  coal  fell.  She  still  stood 
with  her  arms  outstretched  ;  he  knew  that  she  was 
calling  him — as  no  woman  had  ever  called  him — with 
all  that  of  herself  which  was  in  his  heart,  part  of  his  own 
being. 

"  Reuben." 

"  Alice." 

He  came  a  few  steps  back  into  the  room.  .  .  . 


242  SUSSEX    GORSE 

It  was  those  few  steps  which  lost  him  to  her,  for  they 
brought  him  within  sight  of  Boarzell — framed  in  the 
window,  where  Castweasel  woods  had  been.  It  lay  in  a 
great  hush,  a  great  solitude,  a  quiet  beast  of  power  and 
mystery.  It  seemed  to  call  to  him  through  the  twilight 
like  a  love  forsaken.  There  it  lay,  Boarzell — strong, 
beautiful,  desired,  untamed,  still  his  hope,  still  his 
battle.  And  Alice  ?  ...  He  gave  her  a  look,  and  left 
her. 

"  I  once  toald  a  boy  of  mine,"  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  crossed  the  Moor,  "  that  the  sooner  he  found  he  could 
do  wudout  love  the  better.  .  .  .  Well,  I  reckon  I'm  not 
going  to  be  any  weaker  than  my  words." 


BOOK  V 
ALMOST    UNDER 


REUBEN  did  not  go  back  to  Cheat  Land  for 
several  weeks.  Those  five  minutes  had  been 
too  much  for  him.  He  would  never  again  risk 
putting  himself  in  the  power  of  things  he  did  not  under- 
stand. Besides,  he  felt  vaguely  that  after  what  had 
happened  Alice  would  not  want  to  see  him.  She  had 
humiliated  herself,  or  rather  he  had  humiliated  her  — 
for  she  had  put  out  in  one  swift  dark  minute  all  the 
powers  of  her  nature  to  bind  him,  and  she  had  failed. 
He  remembered  her  voice  when  she  whispered,  "  But 
not  too  late,"  and  her  eyes  afterwards,  smouldering  in 
shadow,  and  her  little  hands  held  out  to  him.  .  .  . 
There  had  been  nothing  definite,  obvious,  or  masterful, 
yet  in  those  few  words  and  actions  her  whole  self  had 
pleaded  on  its  knees  —  and  he  had  turned  away. 

But  sometimes  what  kept  him  from  her  more  than  the 
thought  of  her  humiliation  was  the  thought  of  his  own. 
For  sometimes  it  seemed  almost  as  if  she  had  humbled 
him  more  than  he  had  humbled  her.  He  could  not  tell 
whether  this  sick  feeling  of  shame  which  occasionally 
swamped  him  was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  so  nearly 
surrendered  to  her  or  tcuthe  fact  that  he  had  not  quite 
done  so.  Sometimes  he  thought  it  was  the  latter.  The 
whole  thing  was  ridiculous  and  perplexing,  a  lesson  to 
him  not  to  adventure  into  subtleties  but  to  keep  in 
communion  with  the  broad  plain  things  of  earth. 

243 


244  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Early  in  May  he  found  a  visit  to  Cheat  Land  forced 
upon  him.  Jury  wanted  to  buy  a  cow  of  his,  but  one  of 
the  sudden  chills  to  which  he  was  liable  kept  him  indoors. 
Reuben  was  anxious  to  sell  the  animal,  and,  there  being 
one  or  two  weak  points  about  her,  would  trust  nobody 
but  himself  with  the  negotiations.  However,  the  visit 
would  be  quite  safe,  for  he  was  not  likely  to  see  Alice 
alone,  indeed  it  was  probable  that  he  might  not  see  her 
at  all. 

On  reaching  the  farm  he  heard  several  voices  in  the 
kitchen,  and  found  the  invalid  in  an  arm-chair  by  the 
fire,  talking  to  an  oldish  man  and  a  rather  plump  pretty 
girl  of  about  twenty.  Jury  was  an  intellectual,  incom- 
petent-looking fellow,  who  seemed  elderly,  but  at  the 
same  time  gave  one  the  impression  that  this  was  due  to 
his  health.  His  grey  hair  straggled  over  temples  where 
the  skin  was  stretched  tight  and  yellow  as  parchment, 
his  cheeks  were  hollow,  his  eyes  astonishingly  like  his 
daughter's.  He  was  one  of  the  arguments  against  the 
marriage. 

Alice  had  let  Reuben  in.  She  looked  a  little  tired, 
but  otherwise  quite  cheerful,  and  she  welcomed  him 
simply  and  naturally. 

"  This  is  Miss  Lardner,"  she  said,  introducing  him  to 
the  girl,  "  and  Mr.  Lardner  of  Starvecrow." 

"  I  heard  as  how  Starvecrow  had  been  bought  at 
last,"  said  Reuben ;  "not  a  bad  farm,  Muster,  if  you're 
fur  green  crops  mostly.'1 

"  Potatoes,"  said  Lardner,  "  potatoes — if  farmers  'ud 
only  grow  potatoes  and  not  think  so  much  of  grain  and 
rootses,  we  shudn't  hear  of  so  many  of  'em  going  bust." 

The  conversation  became  agricultural,  but  in  spite  of 
the  interest  such  a  topic  always  had  for  him,  Reuben 
could  not  help  watching  the  two  girls.  Miss  Lardner, 
whom  Alice  called  Rose,  was  a  fine  creature,  so  different 
from  the  other  as  to  make  the  contrast  almost  laughable. 
She  was  tall  and  strapping — in  later  life  she  might 


ALMOST    UNDER  245 

become  over  stout,  but  at  present  her  figure  was  splendid, 
superbly  moulded  and  erect.  She  looked  like  a  young 
goddess  as  she  sat  there,  one  leg  crossed  over  the  other, 
showing  her  white  stocking  almost  to  the  knee.  There 
was  something  arrogant  in  her  attitude,  as  if  she  was 
aware  of  the  splendour  of  her  body,  and  gloried  in  it. 
Her  face  too  was  beautiful — though  less  classically  so — 
rather  broad,  with  high  flat  cheek-bones,  and  a  wide 
full-lipped  mouth  which  would  have  given  it  almost  a 
Creole  look,  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  short  delicate 
nose  and  her  fair  ruddiness.  Her  hair  seemed  to 
hesitate  between  gold  and  brown — her  eyes  between 
boldness  and  languor. 

Reuben  found  himself  glancing  at  her  continually, 
and  though  she  seldom  met  his  eyes,  he  knew  that  she 
was  aware  of  his  scrutiny.  He  sometimes  felt  that 
Alice  was  aware  of  it  too. 

As  the  conversation  wore  on,  and  became  more 
general,  Lardner  said  something  about  going  over  to 
Snailham  and  taking  Rose  home  on  the  way. 

"  Oh,  no,  Uncle — I  don't  want  to  go.  Alice  has  asked 
me  to  stay  to  supper/' 

"  But  you  can't  go  home  alone,  and  I  can't  wait  wud 
you,  surelye." 

"  I'll  take  Miss  Lardner  home,"  said  Reuben. 

Directly  he  had  said  the  words,  he  looked  over  at 
Rose  to  see  how  she  would  receive  them.  Her  eye- 
lashes lay  black  and  curly  against  her  cheek,  then  they 
lifted  slowly,  and  her  eyes  looked  out  from  under  the 
half -raised  lids  with  a  kind  of  demure  roguishness.  At 
the  same  time  her  lower  lip  seemed  to  quiver  and  plump 
out,  while  the  corners  of  her  mouth  rose  and  curled.  He 
suddenly  felt  a  desire  to  plant  a  kiss  fairly  on  that  wet 
red  mouth,  which  from  away  across  the  room  seemed 
to  pout  towards  him. 


246  SUSSEX    GORSE 


§2- 

Supper  was  a  quiet  meal.  Old  Jury  and  his  invalid 
wife  sat  at  each  end  of  the  table,  while  Alice  did  most 
of  the  helping  and  waiting.  They  seemed  a  sorry  three 
to  Reuben,  pale,  washed  out,  and  weakly,  their  eyes 
bright  as  birds'  with  the  factitious  light  of  their  en- 
thusiasms for  things  that  did  not  matter.  They  ate 
without  much  appetite,  picking  daintily  at  their  food, 
their  knives  never  in  their  mouths.  Reuben  found 
himself  despising  them  as  he  despised  the  Bardons. 

Rose  did  not  talk  much,  but  she  ate  heartily — she 
must  be  as  healthy  as  she  looked.  Once  or  twice  during 
the  meal  Reuben  caught  himself  staring  at  her  lips — 
they  were  extraordinarily  red,  and  at  the  end  of  the  meal 
the  juice  of  her  pudding  had  stained  them  purple. 

She  said  that  she  must  leave  directly  after  supper. 
Alice  fetched  her  hat,  which  was  not  the  kind  that 
Reuben  had  ever  seen  on  country  girls,  being  of  the 
fashionable  pork-pie  shape.  All  her  clothes  were 
obviously  town-made  ;  she  wore  a  blue  stuff  dress,  tight- 
fitting  round  her  bust  and  shoulders,  full  and  flounced 
in  the  skirt — afterwards  he  heard  that  Rose  had  spent 
some  years  with  relations  in  London  before  coming  to 
live  at  Starvecrow. 

He  gave  her  his  arm,  said  good-bye  to  Alice  in  the 
doorway,  and  went  through  the  little  garden  where 
flowers  crowded  out  vegetables  in  a  very  unbusiness-like 
way,  into  the  lane  which  wound  past  Cheat  Land  and 
round  the  hanger  of  Boarzell,  to  the  farms  of  the  Brede 
Valley. 

Rose,  a  little  to  his  surprise,  began  to  chatter  volubly. 
She  talked  very  much  like  a  child,  with  naive  comments, 
about  simple  things.  She  asked  trivial  questions,  and 
screamed  with  delight  when  some  dusk-blinded  bird 
flew  against  her  breast  and  dashed  down  heavily  into 


ALMOST    UNDER  247 

the  ruts.  She  exclaimed  at  the  crimson  moon  which 
rose  behind  the  hedge  like  a  hot  penny — she  laughed  at 
the  slightest  provocation  ;  and  yet  all  the  while  he  was 
conscious  of  an  underlayer  of  shrewdness,  he  had  an 
extraordinary  conviction  of  experience. 

Besides,  while  she  laughed  and  babbled  like  a  child, 
her  eyes  continually  rose  towards  his  with  a  woman's 
calculated  boldness.  They  spoke  something  quite 
different  from  her  lips — the  combination  was  maddening; 
and  those  lips,  too,  in  their  rare  silences,  were  so  unlike 
the  words  they  uttered  that  he  scarcely  knew  whether 
he  wanted  most  to  silence  them  completely  or  never  let 
them  be  silent. 

"  I  don't  like  Alice  Jury,"  she  prattled,  "  she  says 
just  the  opposite  of  what  you  say.  She  never  lets  her- 
self agree  with  anyone.  She's  a  contradictious  female." 

Then  suddenly  she  was  silent — and  Reuben  kissed 
her. 

He  crooked  his  arm  round  her  and  held  her  close  to 
him,  standing  there  in  the  lane.  Her  lips  slowly  parted 
under  his,  then. suddenly  she  threw  her  head  back  in  a 
kind  of  ecstasy,  giving  him  the  white  expanse  of  her 
neck,  which  he  kissed,  giddy  with  a  soft  fragrance  that 
rose  from  her  clothes,  reminding  him  a  little  of  clover. 

She  was  so  obviously  and  naively  delighted,  that  when 
he  drew  himself  up,  his  idea  of  her  was  again  one  of 
extreme  childishness.  And  yet  it  was  evident  that  she 
was  used  to  kisses,  and  that  he  had  kissed  her  at  her  own 
unspoken  invitation. 

They  walked  on  down  the  lane.  Rose's  chatter  had 
ceased,  and  a  complete  silence  dropped  between  the 
hedges.  The  moon  had  risen  higher,  and  the  western 
hazels  were  bloomed  with  light.  The  moon  was  no  longer 
crimson  in  the  dark  sky,  but  had  burnt  down  to  copper, 
casting  a  copper  glow  into  the  mists,  staining  all  the 
blues  that  melted  into  one  another  along  the  hills.  Only 
the  middle  of  the  lane  was  black — like  a  well.  Reuben 


248  SUSSEX    GORSE 

and  Rose  could  see  each  other's  faces  in  a  kind  of  rusty 
glimmer,  but  their  feet  stumbled  in  the  darkness,  and 
her  hand  lay  clutching  and  heavy  on  his  arm. 

At  last  they  came  to  Castweasel — three  old  cottages 
and  a  ruined  one,  leaning  together  in  a  hollow  like  mush- 
rooms. Beside  the  ruined  cottage  a  tree-trunk  was 
lying,  and  Rose  suddenly  stretched  herself  with  a  little 
sigh. 

"  I'm  tired — let's  sit  down  and  rest  a  bit." 

They  sat  down  on  the  log,  and  she  immediately  crept 
close  to  him  like  a  child.  He  put  his  arm  round  her,  and 
once  again  she  thrilled  him  with  her  own  delight — she 
stole  her  arms  round  his  neck,  holding  his  head  in  the 
crook  of  her  elbows,  and  laughed  with  her  mouth 
against  his.  Then  her  hands  crept  into  his  hair,  and 
rumpled  it,  while  she  whispered  like  a  child  finding  some 
new  virtue  in  its  toy — "  How  thick  !  how  thick  !  "  At 
last  she  drew  his  head  down  to  her  breast,  holding  it 
there  with  both  hands  while  she  dipped  her  kisses  on 
his  eyes.  .  .  . 

Reuben  was  in  ecstasy  by  this  time.  It  was  years 
since  he  had  caressed  a  woman,  except  casually,  for  he 
considered  that  women  interfered  with  his  work.  Rose's 
eagerness  could  not  cheapen  her,  for  it  was  so  childlike, 
and  she  continued  to  give  him  that  sense  of  deep 
experience  which  robbed  her  attitude  of  insipidity.  Her 
delight  in  his  kisses  was  somehow  made  sweeter  to  him 
by  the  conviction  that  she  could  compare  them  with 
other  men's. 

She  began  to  laugh — she  became  gay  and  mettlesome. 
Her  whole  nature  seemed  changed,  and  he  found  it  hard 
to  think  of  her  as  the  beautiful  yet  rather  lumpish  girl 
who  had  sat  in  the  silence  of  a  good  appetite  at  the 
Cheat  Land  supper-table.  Behind  them  the  ruin  of  the 
old  cottage  sent  out  bitter-sweet  scents  of  decay — its 
crumbling  plaster  and  rotting  lath  perfumed  the  night. 
Fragrances  strove  in  the  air — the  scent  of  Rose's  clothes, 


ALMOST    UNDER  249 

and  of  her  big  curls  tumbling  on  his  shoulder,  the  scent 
of  still  water,  of  dew-drenched  leaves,  and  damp, 
teeming  soil — sweet  vagabond  scents  of  bluebells, 
puffed  on  sudden  breezes.  .  .  . 

Reuben  was  growing  drunken  with  it  all — he  strained 
Rose  to  him  ;  she  was  part  of  the  night.  Just  as  her 
scents  mingled  with  its  scents,  so  he  and  she  both 
mingled  with  the  hush  of  the  lightless,  sorrowless  fields, 
the  blots  of  trees,  the  woods  that  whispered  voicelessly. 
.  .  .  Above  the  hedges,  stars  winked  and  flashed, 
dancing  in  the  crystalline  air.  Right  overhead  the  Sign 
of  Cancer  jigged  to  its  image  in  Cast  weasel  Pool. 
Reuben  looked  up,  and  through  a  gate  he  saw  Boarzell 
rearing  like  a  shaggy  beast  towards  him.  He  suddenly 
became  more  aware  of  Boarzell  than  of  anything  in  the 
night,  than  of  the  flowers  or  the  water  or  the  stars,  or 
even  Rose,  drowsing  against  his  shoulder  with  parted 
lips.  Boarzell  filled  the  night.  The  breeze  became 
suddenly  laden  with  scents  of  it — the  faint  bitterness  of 
its  dew-drenched  turf  where  the  bracken-crosiers  were 
beginning  to  uncurl,  of  its  noon-smelling  gorse,  of  its 
heather  -  tangle,  half  budding,  half  dead,  of  its  fir- 
needles and  its  fir-cones,  rotting  and  sprouting.  All 
seemed  to  blend  together  into  a  strong,  heady,  am- 
moniacal  smell  .  .  .  the  great  beast  of  Boarzell  domin- 
ated the  night,  pawed  Reuben,  roared  over  him,  made 
him  suddenly  mad,  clutching  Rose  till  she  cried  out 
with  pain,  kissing  her  till  she  broke  free,  and  stood 
before  him  pale  and  dishevelled,  with  anger  in  her  eyes. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  the  mood  had  passed — the 
beast  of  Boarzell  had  ceased  to  worry  him. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said  sheepishly. 

"  And  well  you  may  be,"  said  Rose,  "  youVe  torn  my 
gown." 

They  walked  on  down  the  lane ;  she  pouted  and  swung 
her  hat.  Reuben,  anxious  to  propitiate,  picked  prim- 
roses under  the  hedge  and  gave  them  to  her. 


250  SUSSEX    GORSE 

She  looked  pleased  at  once,  and  began  to  eat  them. 

"  Wot,"  said  Reuben,  "  you  eat  flowers  ?  " 

t(  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  love  eating  primroses — 
pick  me  some  more." 

So  for  the  rest  of  the  walk  to  Starvecrow,  he  picked 
primroses,  and  she  nibbled  them  with  her  white  teeth, 
which  were  small  and  even,  except  for  the  two  canines, 
which  were  pointed  like  a  little  animal's. 

§3- 

During  the  next  day  or  two  Reuben  thought  a  great 
deal  about  Rose  Lardner.  He  made  covert  enquiries 
about  her  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  found  out  that  she 
was  an  orphan  and  old  Lardner's  only  surviving  relative. 
He  was  an  extremely  prosperous  man,  and  at  his  death 
Rose  would  have  all  his  money.  Moreover,  rumour  gave 
him  a  cancer  which  would  carry  him  off  before  very  long. 

Reuben  turned  over  these  facts  in  his  mind.  He 
realised  what  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  for  Odiam  if  he 
married  Rose.  Here  was  the  very  wife  he  wanted — of 
good  standing  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  something  of 
an  heiress,  young  and  healthy,  and  likely  to  give  him 
stout  boys,  and  also  exceedingly  attractive  in  herself* 

Under  the  circumstances  he  hardly  knew  what  held 
him  back,  what  made  the  whole  idea  vaguely  repugnant 
to  him.  Surely  it  could  not  be  his  feeling  for  Alice  Jury. 
The  terrible  thought  suggested  itself  that  his  love  for 
Alice  would  survive  all  the  outward  signs  of  its  demo- 
lition, that  though  beaten  and  killed  and  destroyed  it 
would  haunt  him  disembodied.  That  was  the  secret  of 
its  power — its  utter  lack  of  corporiety,  its  independence 
of  the  material  things  a  strong  man  could  bend  to  his 
will,  so  that,  as  it  were,  one  could  never  lay  hands  on  it, 
but  chased  it  for  ever  like  a  ghost. 

Nevertheless,  he  called  at  Starvecrow  and  renewed 
his  impressions  of  Rose.  They  did  not  want  much 


ALMOST    UNDER  251 

adjustment ;  he  found  her  as  he  had  found  her  that  first 
evening — childlike  in  all  things  save  love,  indolent, 
languorous,  and  yet  with  gay  bursts  of  spirit  which  made 
her  charming.  He  noticed  too  how  well  dressed  she  was 
— he  admired  her  stuff  gown  and  neat  buttoned  boots, 
so  different  from  what  he  was  accustomed  to  see  on  the 
feet  of  his  womenfolk  ;  he  admired  the  crinkle  and 
gloss  of  her  hair,  so  beautifully  waved  and  brushed,  and 
scented  with  some  lotion — her  hands,  too,  well  kept  and 
white  with  shining  pink  nails,  her  trim  muslin  collar,  the 
clover  scent  of  her  garments  ...  it  was  all  new,  and 
gave  him  somehow  a  vague  feeling  of  self-respect. 

When  they  were  alone  she  was  as  eager  as  ever  for  his 
love.  He  had  a  precious  ten  minutes  with  her  in  the 
parlour  at  Starvecrow,  at  the  end  of  which  in  came  old 
Lardner,  with  talk  of  crops  and  beasts.  Reuben  con- 
sidered that  he  had  some  knowledge  of  farming — which 
was  a  long  way  for  him  to  go — and  took  him  into 
confidence  about  some  of  Odiam's  affairs.  The  farm  was 
still  causing  him  anxiety,  and  he  felt  in  need  of  ready 
money.  He  wanted  to  establish  a  milk  round,  with  a 
dairy  shop  in  Rye,  but  he  could  not  spare  the  capital. 

That  visit  was  the  first  of  several  others.  Starvecrow 
took  the  place  of  Cheat  Land — indeed,  he  seldom  went 
near  Cheat  Land  now.  Rose  gave  him  all  the  refuge  he 
wanted  from  the  vexings  and  thwartings  of  his  daily  life. 
She  was  not,  like  Alice,  a  counter-irritant,  but  a  sweet 
drowse  of  tenderness  and  beauty  in  which  he  forgot  his 
disappointment,  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  lovely 
woman  he  caressed. 

She  gave  him  sympathy,  too,  in  a  childlike  way.  She 
did  not  like  it  if  he  interrupted  his  love-making  to  tell 
her  about  his  plans  for  Boarzell,  but  at  other  moments 
she  seemed  to  enjoy  hearing  him  talk  of  his  ambition, 
and  often,  when  the  jar  and  failure  of  things  depressed 
him,  she  would  take  him  in  her  arms,  and  soothe  him 
like  a  baby  with — "  Of  course  you'll  have  Boarzell,  my 


252  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Reuben  ;  of  course  it  will  be  yours — you're  so  strong 
and  masterful,  you're  bound  to  get  all  you  want." 

Her  delight  in  him  never  seemed  to  fail.  Sometimes  it 
seemed  to  him  strange  that  the  difference  in  their  ages 
did  not  affect  her  more.  She  never  gave  him  a  hint  that 
she  thought  him  too  old  for  her.  He  once  told  her  that 
he  was  nearly  fifty,  but  she  had  answered  with  a  happy 
laugh  that  she  did  not  like  boys. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Reuben  at  fifty  was  a  lover  of 
whom  any  girl  might  still  be  proud.  If  a  little  grey  had 
come  into  his  hair,  it  had  merely  been  to  give  it  the 
gleam  of  polished  iron,  and  contrast  it  more  effectively 
with  the  swarthiness  of  his  skin.  His  teeth  were  as  white 
and  even  as  when  he  was  twenty,  for  he  had  never  risked 
spoiling  them  by  too  much  tobacco — his  eyes,  dark  and 
bright,  were  like  a  boy's  ;  his  broad  back  was  straight, 
and  his  powerful  arms  could  lift  even  the  plump  Rose  to 
his  shoulder.  He  once  carried  her  on  his  shoulder  all  the 
way  from  Tide  Barn  to  the  beginning  of  Starvecrow  lane. 

§4- 

Towards  the  end  of  August,  Reuben  asked  Rose  to 
marry  him. 

The  request  was  not  so  much  the  outcome  of  passion 
as  might  have  been  imagined  from  the  form  it  took.  It 
was  true  that  he  was  deeply  enamoured  of  her,  but  it 
was  also  true  that  for  three  months  he  had  endured  the 
intoxication  of  her  presence  without  definitely,  or  even 
indefinitely,  claiming  her  for  his  own.  He  had  held 
himself  back  till  he  had  thoroughly  weighed  and 
pondered  her  in  relation  to  his  schemes — he  was  not 
going  to  renounce  Alice  for  a  wife  who  would  be  herself 
a  drawback  in  another  way. 

However,  though  he  had  never  deceived  himself  that 
Rose's  sympathetic  tendernesses  meant  any  real  sharing 
of  his  ambition,  he  was  soon  convinced  that  to  marry  her 


ALMOST    UNDER  253 

would  be  materially  to  help  himself  in  the  battle  which 
was  now  dragging  a  little  on  his  side.  He  wanted  ready 
money — her  settlements  would  provide  that ;  and  her 
heirship  of  Lardner  held  out  dazzling  hopes  for  the 
future.  He  wanted  children — where  could  he  find  a 
healthier  mother  ?  He  wanted  to  raise  the  dignity  of 
Odiam,  and  could  hardly  have  thought  of  a  better  means 
than  marriage  with  the  niece  of  one  of  the  wealthiest  and 
most  important  farmers  in  the  parish.  To  crown  all,  he 
gave  himself  an  adorable  woman,  young,  lovely,  tender, 
and  gay.  This  consideration  could  not  have  dragged 
him  contrary  to  his  ambition,  but  combined  with  it,  it 
could  give  to  an  otherwise  very  practical  and  material 
plan  all  the  heats  of  passion  and  the  glories  of  romance. 

The  only  disappointment  was  Rose's  reception  of  his 
offer.  At  first  she  was  unaffectedly  surprised.  She  had 
looked  upon  the  whole  affair  as  a  flirtation,  of  which  she 
had  had  several,  and  had  never  expected  it  to  take  such 
a  serious  turn. 

Even  when  she  had  recovered  from  her  surprise,  she 
refused  to  give  him  an  answer.  He  became  suddenly 
alarmed  lest  she  thought  him  too  old,  and  pressing  her 
for  her  reasons,  found  that  the  real  matter  was  that  she 
did  not  want  to  sacrifice  her  freedom. 

"  Wot  do  you  mean,  sweetheart  ?  Doan't  you  love 
me?  " 

"  Of  course  I  love  you — but  it  doesn't  follow  I  want 
to  belong  to  you.  Can't  we  go  on  as  we  are  ?  " 

"  You  queer  me,  Rose.  How  can  we  go  on  as  we  are  ? 
— it's  like  walking  on  a  road  that  never  leads  nowhere." 

"  Well,  that's  very  nice — I  don't  always  want  to  go 
somewhere  every  time  I  take  a  walk,  I  much  prefer  just 
wandering." 

"  I  doan't." 

i(  Because  you're  so  practical  and  business-like,  and 
I'm  afraid  you'd  try  and  make  me  practical  and  business- 
like too.  That's  why  I  said  I  wanted  to  be  free." 


254  SUSSEX    GORSE 

:<  You  shall  be  free,  Rose — I  promise  you.  You  shall 
do  wotsumdever  you  please." 

"  Absolutely  '  wotsumdever  '  ?  " 

"  Yes — wudin  reason,  of  course." 

"  Ah,  that's  it.    Your  reason  mightn't  be  my  reason." 

:*  You  wudn't  find  me  unreasonable,  dear." 

"  Well,  I  shall  have  to  think  it  over." 

She  thought  it  over  for  two  months,  during  which 
Reuben  suffered  all  the  torments  of  his  lot.  She  soon 
came  to  realise  and  appreciate  her  powers  ;  she  dangled 
hopes  and  fears  with  equal  zest  before  his  eyes,  she 
used  his  anxieties  to  stoke  the  furnaces  of  his  passion, 
till  she  had  betrayed  him  into  blazes  and  explosions 
which  he  looked  on  afterwards  with  uneasy  shame. 

Once  in  sick  amazement  at  himself  he  took  refuge  at 
Cheat  Land,  and  sat  for  an  hour  in  Alice  Jury's  kitchen, 
watching  her  sew.  But  the  springs  of  his  confidence  were 
dried,  he  could  not  tell  Alice  what  he  felt  about  Rose. 
She  knew,  of  course.  All  the  neighbourhood  knew  he 
was  in  love  with  Rose  Lardner,  and  watched  the 
progress  of  his  courtship  with  covert  smiles. 

Rose  used  often  to  come  to  Odiam,  where  she  was  at 
first  rather  shy  of  Reuben's  children,  all  of  whom  were 
older  than  herself.  In  time,  however,  she  outgrew  her 
shyness,  and  became  of  an  exceedingly  mad  and  romping 
disposition.  She  ran  about  the  house  like  a  wild  thing, 
she  dropped  blackberries  into  Caro's  cream,  she  tickled 
Pete's  neck  with  wisps  of  hay,  she  danced  in  the  yard 
with  Jemmy.  Reuben  grew  desperate — he  felt  the 
hopelessness  of  capturing  this  baby  who  played  games 
with  his  children  ;  and  yet  Rose  was  in  some  ways  so 
much  older  than  they — she  loved  to  say  risky  things  in 
front  of  the  innocent  Caro,  and  howled  with  laughter 
when  she  could  not  understand — she  loved  to  prod  and 
baffle  the  two  boys,  who  in  this  respect  were  nearly  as 
inexperienced  as  their  sister.  Then,  on  the  walk  home 
with  Reuben,  over  Boarzell,  she  would  retail  these  feats 


ALMOST    UNDER  255 

of  hers  with  gusto,  she  would  invite  his  kisses,  sting  up 
his  passion — she  tormented  him  with  her  extraordinary 
combinations  of  childishness  and  experience,  shyness 
and  abandonment,  innocence  and  corruption. 

In  time  the  state  of  his  own  mind  reduced  Reuben  to 
silence  about  his  longings.  He  somehow  lost  the  power 
of  picturing  himself  married  to  this  turbulent,  bewilder- 
ing creature,  half-woman,  half-child.  He  clung  to  her 
in  silent  kisses  ;  leading  her  home  over  Boarzell,  he 
would  suddenly  turn  and  smother  her  in  his  arms,  while 
his  breast  heaved  with  griefs  and  sighings  he  had  not 
known  in  the  earlier  weeks  of  his  courtship. 

Rose  noticed  this  difference,  and  it  piqued  her.  She 
began  to  miss  his  continual  protestations.  Sometimes 
she  tried  to  stir  them  up  again,  but  her  bafflings  had 
reacted  on  herself  ;  she  handled  him  clumsily,  he  was 
too  mazed  to  respond  to  her  flicks.  Then  she  became 
sulky,  irritable,  slightly  tyrannous — even  stinting  her 
kisses. 

One  night  early  in  October  he  was  taking  her  home. 
They  had  crossed  Boarzell,  and  were  walking  through 
the  lanes  that  tangle  the  valley  north  of  Udimore.  She 
walked  with  her  arm  conventionally  resting  on  his,  her 
profile  demure  in  the  starlight.  He  felt  tired,  not  in  his 
body,  but  in  his  mind — somehow  life  seemed  very  aim- 
less and  gloomy  ;  he  despised  himself  because  he  craved 
for  her  arms,  for  her  light  thoughtless  sympathy. 

"  Why  doan't  you  speak  to  me,  Rose  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking." 

"  Wot  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  clothes  and  things." 

He  stopped  suddenly  in  their  walk,  as  he  had  often 
done,  and  seized  her  in  his  arms,  swinging  her  off  her 
feet,  burying  his  face  in  her  wraps  to  kiss  her  neck.  She 
kicked  and  fought  him  like  a  wild  cat,  and  at  last  he 
dropped  her.  | 

"  Why  woan't  you  let  me  kiss  you  ?  " 


256  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Because  I  won't." 

She  walked  quickly,  almost  running,  and  he  had  to 
stride  to  keep  up  with  her. 

:<  You're  justabout  cruel,"  he  said  furiously. 

"  And  so  are  you." 

"  Wot  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  You've  changed  your  mind  about  wanting  to 
marry  me." 

He  stared  at  her  with  his  mouth  open. 

"  Rose.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  don't  gape  at  me.    You  know  you  have." 

"  I  justabout  haven't.    It's  you " 

"  It  isn't  me.  I  only  asked  for  a  little  time  to  think 
it  over,  and  then  you  go  and  cool  off." 

11 1 — cool  off !  My  dear,  I  dudn't  ever.  I  never 
understood — you're  such  a  tedious  liddle  wild  thing." 

"  Well,  do  you  want  to  marry  me  ?  " 

8  Rose !  " 

"  And  you'll  let  me  do  as  I  like  ?  " 

"  Rose,  marry  me." 

"  Very  well — I  will.  But  it's  funny  I  should  want 
to." 

Then  suddenly  her  expression  changed.  Her  eyes 
half  closed,  her  lips  parted,  and  she  held  out  her  arms 
to  him  with  a  laugh  like  a  sob. 

§5- 

Reuben  and  Rose  were  married  in  the  January  of 
'70.  It  was  the  earliest  date  compatible  with  the 
stocking  of  her  wardrobe,  a  business  which  immediately 
absorbed  her  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 

Meantime  Reuben,  having  repapered  the  parlour  and 
given  a  new  coat  of  whitewash  to  the  best  bedroom 
ceiling,  discussed  settlements  with  old  Lardner.  These 
did  not  turn  out  as  large  as  he  had  hoped — the  old  man 
was  close,  and  attempts  on  his  generosity  only  resulted 


ALMOST    UNDER  257 

in  embarrassing  doubts  as  to  the  disinterestedness  of 
his  son-in-law's  affections.  Reuben  comforted  himself 
with  the  thought  that  Lardner  most  certainly  had  a 
cancer. 

At  the  wedding  Rose  fairly  dazed  the  onlookers.  She 
wore  a  dress  of  heavy  white  satin,  with  a  white  lace 
veil — and  a  bustle.  It  was  the  first  bustle  that  had 
ever  been  seen  in  Peasmarsh,  or  even  in  Rye.  In  itself 
it  was  devastating  enough,  but  it  soon  acquired  a  pro- 
phetic and  metaphorical  significance  which  made  it 
even  more  impressive.  Spectators  saw  in  it  the  forecast 
of  Odiam's  downfall — "  He  can't  stand  that,"  said 
Brazier,  the  new  man  at  Totease,  "she's  a  Jezebubble." 
— "  Only  it  aun't  her  head  as  she's  tired  this  time," 
said  Ticehurst. — "  She  shud  have  worn  it  in  front  of 
her,  and  then  we  shud  have  bin  interested,"  said  Cooper 
of  Kitchenhour. 

Alice  Jury  and  her  father  were  in  church.  Reuben 
saw  them  as  he  marched  up  the  aisle  with  an  enormous 
flower  in  his  buttonhole,  accompanied  by  Ginner  of 
Socknersh  as  his  best  man.  It  struck  him  that  she 
looked  more  pretty  and  animated  than  usual,  in  a 
woolly  red  dress  and  a  little  fur  cap  under  which  her 
eyes  were  bright  as  a  robin's.  Even  then  he  felt  a  little 
offended  and  perplexed  by  her  behaviour — she  should 
have  drooped — it  would  have  been  more  becoming  if 
she  had  drooped. 

The  remnants  of  his  family  were  in  a  front  pew — Pete 
with  an  elaborately  curled  forelock,  Jemmy  casting  the 
scent  of  cheap  hair  oil  into  the  prevalent  miasma  of 
camphor  and  moth-killer,  and  between  the  two  boys, 
.  Caro  in  an  unbecoming  hat  which  she  wore  at  a  wrong 
angle,  while  her  dark  restless  eyes  devoured  Rose's 
creamy  smartness,  from  her  satin  shoes  to  the  wave  of 
curling-irons  in  her  hair.  Harry  had  been  left  at  home 
— he  was  in  an  impossible  mood,  tormented  by  some 
dark  current  of  memory,  wandering  from  room  to  room 


258  SUSSEX    GORSE 

as  he  muttered — "  Another  wedding — another  wedding 
— we're  always  having  weddings  in  this  house. " 

After  the  ceremony  nearly  a  hundred  guests  were  fed 
at  Starvecrow.  All  the  most  important  farmers  of  the 
neighbourhood  were  there,  except  of  course  Realf  of 
Grandturzel.  Rose  was  like  her  name-flower,  flushed 
and  scented.  Very  different  from  his  earlier  bride,  she 
sat  beside  Reuben  with  head  erect  and  smiling  lips — 
she  drank  with  everyone,  and  the  wine  deepened  the 
colour  of  her  cheeks  and  made  her  eyes  like  stars.  She 
talked,  she  laughed,  she  ate,  she  was  so  happy  that  her 
glances,  full  of  bold  languor,  swept  round  the  table, 
resting  on  all  present  as  well  as  the  chosen  man — she 
was  a  gay  wife. 

Dancing  at  weddings  was  dying  out  as  a  local  fashion, 
so  when  the  breakfast  was  over  the  guests  melted  away, 
having  eaten  and  drunk  themselves  into  a  desire  for 
sleep.  Reuben's  family  went  home.  He  and  Rose 
lingered  a  little  with  her  uncle,  then  as  the  January 
night  came  crisping  into  the  sky  and  fields,  he  drove 
her  to  Odiam  in  his  gig,  as  long  ago  he  had  driven 
Naomi.  She  leaned  against  his  shoulder,  for  he  wanted 
both  hands  for  his  horse,  and  her  hair  tickled  his  neck. 
She  was  silent  for  about  the  first  time  that  day,  and  as 
eager  for  the  kisses  he  could  give  her  while  he  drove  as 
Naomi  had  been  shy  of  them.  Above  in  the  cold  black 
sky  a  hundred  pricks  of  fire  shuddered  like  sparks — the 
lump  of  Boarzell  was  blocked  against  a  powder  of 
stars. 

At  Odiam  Rose  shook  off  her  seriousness.  Supper 
was  ready,  and  undaunted  by  the  huge  meal  she  had 
already  eaten,  she  sat  down  to  it  with  a  hearty  appetite. 
Her  step-children  stared  at  her  curiously — Rose  had  a 
gust  of  affection  for  them.  Poor  things  ! — their  lives 
had  been  so  crude  and  dull  and  innocent.  She  must 
give  them  a  little  brightness  now,  soften  the  yoke  of 
Reuben's  tyranny — that  girl  Caro,  for  instance,  she  must 


ALMOST    UNDER  259 

give  her  some  pretty  clothes  and  show  her  how  to 
arrange  her  hair  becomingly. 

Supper  was  a  very  gay  meal — the  gayest  there  had 
ever  been  at  Odiam.  Rose  laughed  and  talked,  as 
at  Starvecrow,  and  soon  her  husband  and  the  boys  were 
laughing  with  her.  Some  of  the  things  she  said  were 
rather  daring,  and  Caro  had  only  a  dim  idea  of  what  she 
meant,  but  Rose's  eyes  rolling  mischievously  under  the 
long  lashes,  and  the  tip  of  her  tongue  showing  between 
her  lips,  gave  her  words  a  devilish  bite  even  if  only  half 
understood.  Somehow  the  whole  atmosphere  of  the 
Odiam  kitchen  was  changed — it  was  like  the  lifting  of 
a  curtain,  the  glimpsing  of  a  life  where  all  was  gay; 
where  love  and  ambition  and  all  solemn  things  were  the 
stuff  of  laughter. 

The  boys  beat  the  handles  of  their  knives  on  the  table 
and  rolled  in  their  chairs  with  wide-open  mouths  as  if 
they  would  burst ;  Reuben  leaned  back  with  a  great 
pride  and  softening  in  his  eyes,  round  which  many  hard 
lines  had  traced  themselves  of  late  ;  Caro's  lips  were 
parted  and  she  seemed  half  enchanted,  half  bewildered 
by  the  other  woman's  careless  merriment.  Only  Harry 
took  no  interest  and  looked  dissatisfied — "Another 
wedding,"  he  mumbled  as  he  dribbled  his  food  un- 
noticed over  the  cloth — "  we're  always  having  weddings 
in  this  house." 

It  was  strange  that  during  this  gay  meal  the  strongest 
link  was  forged  between  Rose  and  Caro.  Two  natures 
more  utterly  unlike  it  would  be  hard  to  find — Caro's 
starved  ignorance  of  love  and  aged  familiarity  with 
dustier  matters  made  her  the  antithesis  of  Rose,  a  child 
in  all  things  save  those  of  the  affections  ;  but  the  two 
women's  hearts  met  in  their  laughter.  It  was  Rose  who 
invited,  Caro  who  responded,  for  Rose  in  spite  of  her 
years  and  inexperience  had  the  one  advantage  which 
made  her  the  older  of  the  two.  She  was  drawn  to  Caro 
partly  from  essential  kindness,  partly  because  she  appre- 


260  SUSSEX    GORSE 

dated  the  luxury  of  pitying  her — Caro  responded  with 
all  the  shy  devotion  of  a  warped  nature  going  out  towards 
one  who  enjoys  that  for  which  it  unconsciously  pines. 
Rose's  beauty,  jollity,  and  happiness  made  her  a  goddess 
to  the  less  fortunate  girl. 

After  supper  Rose  turned  towards  her. 

"  Will  you  come  up  and  help  me  unpack  ?  " 

Caro  flushed  with  pleasure — a  light  had  kindled  in 
her  grey  life,  and  she  found  herself  looking  forward  to 
days  of  basking. 

They  went  up  together  to  the  huge  low-raftered  bed- 
room, which  struck  horribly  cold. 

"  Ugh  !  "  said  Rose—"  no  fire  !  " 

"  But  it's  a  bedroom/' 

"  That's  no  reason  for  not  having  a  fire.  I  shall 
freeze.  Let's  have  the  servant  up  to  light  one." 

"  Oh,  no.  I'll  light  it ;  Mary's  busy  clearing  the 
table.  But  I  reckon  as  faather  woan't  be  pleased." 

"  I'll  make  him  pleased.  You  leave  father  to  me  for 
the  future." 

Caro  fetched  some  wood  and  turf  and  laid  the  fire,  to 
which  Rose  applied  a  match,  feeling  that  by  this  she 
had  done  her  share  of  the  work.  Then  they  began  to 
unpack.  There  were  two  trunks  full  of  clothes,  and  Rose 
complicated  matters  by  refusing  to  take  things  out  as 
they  came  but  diving  after  various  articles  she  particu- 
larly wanted. 

"  I  want  my  blue  negleegy — I  must  show  you  my  blue 
negleegy,"  she  panted,  up  to  her  elbows  in  underlinen. 
"  Oh,  here  it  is  !  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  It's  silk  !  "  said  Caro  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Of  course  it  is — and  the  very  best  silk  too.  I'll 
put  it  on.  Please  undo  my  dress." 

Caro  helped  her  off  with  her  wedding-dress,  and  after 
having  recovered  her  breath,  which  she  lost  completely 
at  the  sight  of  the  lace  on  her  chemise,  she  helped  her 
arrange  the  "  negleegy,"  and  watched  her  open-mouthed 


ALMOST    UNDER  261 

as  she  posed  in  it  before  the  fragment  of  looking- 
glass. 

"  Isn't  it  chick  ?  "  said  Rose,  "  I  got  it  in  Hastings — 
they  say  it  is  copied  from  a  Paris  model.  Now  let's  go 
on  with  the  unpacking. " 

They  went  on — that  is  to  say  Rose  leaned  back  in 
her  chair  and  directed  Caro  as  she  took  the  things  out 
of  the  trunks.  The  girl  was  fairly  bewildered  by  what 
she  saw — the  laced  chemises,  the  flounced  petticoats, 
the  dainty  nightgowns  with  transparent  necks.  "  But 
you'll  show  through,"  she  said  in  tones  of  horror  as  she 
displayed  one  of  these,  and  could  not  understand  why 
Rose  rolled  in  her  chair  with  laughter. 

There  were  little  pots  of  cream  and  bottles  of  hair- 
lotion,  there  were  ebony-backed  brushes,  patent  leather 
shoes,  kid  gloves,  all  sorts  of  marvels  which  Caro  had 
seen  nowhere  but  in  shops.  As  she  unpacked  she  felt  a 
kind  of  soreness  in  her  heart.  Why  should  Rose  have 
all  these  beautiful  things,  these  laces,  these  perfumes, 
these  silks  and  ribbons,  while  Caro  wore  nothing  but 
stuff  and  calico  or  smelt  of  anything  sweeter  than  milk  ? 
As  she  glanced  at  Rose,  leaning  back  in  the  most  com- 
fortable chair  to  be  found  in  that  uncomfortable  room 
— the  firelight  dancing  on  the  silken  ripples  of  her  gown, 
her  neck  and  arms  gleaming  through  clouds  of  lace — the 
soreness  woke  into  a  pain.  Rose  had  something  more 
even  than  silks  and  laces.  She  had  love.  It  was  love 
that  made  her  hold  her  chin  so  proudly,  it  was  love  that 
made  her  cheeks  flush  and  her  eyes  glow.  And  no  one 
had  ever  loved  Caro — she  had  never  heard  a  man's 
voice  in  tenderness,  or  felt  even  so  much  as  a  man's 
hand  fondle  hers.  .  .  . 

"  Caro,  would  you  mind  brushing  my  hair  ?  " 

Rose  was  taking  out  the  pins,  and  curls  and  tendrils 

j  of  hair  began  to  fall  on  her  shoulders.    Caro  took  the 

|  brush,  and  swept  it  over  the  soft  mass,  gleaming  like 

spun  glass.    A  subtle  perfume  rose  from  it,  the  rub  of 


262  SUSSEX    GORSE 

it  on  her  hand  was  like  silk.  Rose's  eyes  closed  as  the 
brush  stroked  her,  and  her  lips  parted  slowly  into  a  smile. 
Then  suddenly,  without  warning,  all  this  love  and 
happiness  and  possession  became  too  much  for  Caro — 
she  dropped  the  brush  and  the  scented  hair,  and  burst 
into  passionate  tears. 

§6. 

Reuben  at  once  laid  out  his  wife's  money  to  the  best 
advantage.  He  bought  twenty  cows,  good  milkers,  and 
started  a  dairy  business  in  Rye.  A  shop  was  opened 
near  the  Landgate,  which  sold  milk,  butter,  cream,  and 
eggs  from  Odiam.  He  also  tried  to  establish  a  milk- 
round  in  Rye,  sending  circulars  to  inns  and  private 
houses.  He  engaged  a  young  woman  to  serve  in  the 
shop,  and  boys  to  drive  his  milk-carts.  This  meant  a 
big  expenditure,  and  almost  all  Rose's  money  was 
swallowed  up  by  it. 

Reuben  was  surprised  at  Lardner's  attitude.  The  old 
man  refused  to  look  upon  this  spending  of  his  niece's 
dowry  as  an  excellent  investment,  which  would  soon 
bring  in  returns  a  hundredfold — he  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  see  her  money  lying  safe  and  useless  in  Lewes 
Old  Bank,  and  accused  Backfield  of  greed  and  reckless- 
ness. Reuben  in  his  turn  was  disgusted  with  Lardner's 
parsimony,  and  would  have  quarrelled  with  him  had  he 
not  been  afraid  of  an  estrangement.  The  farmer  of 
Starvecrow  could  not  speak  without  all  sorts  of  dreadful 
roars  and  clearings  in  his  throat,  and  Reuben  hopefully 
observed  the  progress  of  the  cancer. 

Rose  herself  did  not  much  care  how  her  money  was 
spent  as  long  as  she  had  the  things  she  wanted.  First  of 
these  at  present  was  Reuben's  love,  and  that  she  had  in 
plenty.  She  was  a  perpetual  source  of  delight  to  him  ; 
her  beauty,  her  astounding  mixture  of  fire  and  inno- 
cence, her  good  humour,  and  her  gaiety  were  even  more 
intoxicating  than  before  marriage.  He  felt  that  he  had 


ALMOST    UNDER  263 

found  the  ideal  wife.  As  a  woman  she  was  perfect,  so 
perfect  that  in  her  arms  he  could  forget  her  short- 
comings as  a  comrade.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter  if 
she  failed  to  plumb  the  depths  of  his  desire  for  things 
outside  herself,  as  long  as  she  herself  was  an  undying 
source  of  enchantment  ? — smoothing  away  the  wrinkles 
of  his  day  with  her  caresses,  giving  him  love  where  she 
could  not  give  him  understanding,  her  heart  where  she 
could  not  give  her  brain.  During  the  hours  of  work  and 
fret  he  would  long  for  her,  for  the  quiet  warm  evenings, 
and  the  comfort  which  the  wordless  contact  of  her 
brought.  She  made  him  forget  his  heaviness,  and  gather 
strength  to  meet  his  difficulties,  giving  him  draughts  of 
refreshment  for  to-morrow's  journey  in  the  desert. 

His  times  were  still  anxious.  Even  if  the  milk-round 
turned  out  a  success,  it  was  bound  to  be  a  loss  to  him 
during  the  first  year.  A  multiplication  of  servants  also 
meant  for  a  man  like  Reuben  a  multiplication  of  trials. 
He  would  have  liked  to  do  all  the  work  himself,  and 
could  trust  no  one  to  do  it  properly  for  him.  His  under- 
lings, with  their  detached  attitude  towards  the  farm, 
were  a  perpetual  source  of  anxiety  and  contempt.  His 
heart  sickened  for  those  stalwart  sons  he  had  dreamed 
of  in  the  days  of  his  first  marriage — a  dream  which 
mocked  him  daily  with  its  pitiful  materialisation  in  the 
shred  of  family  that  still  worked  for  Odiam.  Reuben 
longed  for  Rose  to  have  a  child,  but  the  months  passed, 
and  she  had  no  favourable  answer  to  his  repeated 
questionings,  which  struck  her  at  first  as  amusing,  later 
as  irritating,  and  at  last — at  the  suggestion  of  one  or 
two  female  friends — as  indelicate. 

She  herself  had  no  wish  for  motherhood,  and  ex- 
pressed this  so  openly  that  in  time  Reuben  began  to 
entertain  dark  doubts  of  her,  and  to  feel  that  she  would 
avoid  it  if  she  could.  Yet  she  in  herself  was  so  utterly 
sweet  that  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  be  angry,  or 
use  anything  but  tender  remonstrance  when  she  vexed 


264  SUSSEX    GORSE 

him  with  her  attitude  towards  life  in  general  and 
marriage  in  particular. 

She  gulped  at  pleasure,  and  she  gave  him  so  much 
that  he  could  not  deny  her  what  she  craved  for,  though 
the  mere  decorativeness  of  her  tastes  amazed  and  some- 
times appalled  him.  She  coaxed  him  to  buy  her  new 
curtains  and  chair-covers  for  the  parlour,  and  to  turn  it 
into  a  room  which  could  be  used,  where  she  could  lounge 
in  her  pretty  frocks,  and  entertain  her  women-friends — 
of  whom  she  had  a  startling  number — to  afternoon  tea, 
with  cream,  and  little  cakes  that  cost  an  amount  of 
money  altogether  disproportionate  to  the  space  that 
they  filled  in  one's  inside.  She  demanded  other  enter- 
tainments too — visits  to  Rye,  and  even  to  Hastings,  and 
jaunts  to  fairs  other  than  the  sanctioned  one  on  BoarzelL 

Reuben  was  delighted  with  her  fashionable  clothes, 
the  dainty  things  with  which  she  managed  to  surround 
herself,  her  fastidious  care  for  her  person,  her  pomadings, 
her  soapings,  her  scentings — but  he  sometimes  had  vague 
doubts  of  this  beautiful,  extravagant,  irresponsible 
creature.  He  was  like  a  man  stirring  in  a  happy  dream, 
realising  in  the  midst  of  it  that  he  dreams,  and  must 
some  day  awake. 

§7. 

The  year  '71  was  on  the  whole  a  bad  one.  The 
summer  was  parched,  the  autumn  sodden,  and  the 
winter  frozen.  Reuben's  oats  after  some  excellent 
promises  failed  him  abruptly,  as  was  the  way  with  crops 
on  Boarzell.  His  wheat  was  better  in  quality  but  poor 
in  quantity,  his  mangolds  had  the  rot,  and  his  hops, 
except  for  the  old  field  by  the  lane,  were  brown  and 
ragged  with  blight. 

This  would  have  been  bad  enough  in  any  year,  but  in 
times  when  he  bore  the  burden  of  his  yet  profitless  milk- 
round  it  was  only  a  little  short  of  catastrophe.  Making 
every  allowance  for  a  first  year,  that  milk-round  had 


ALMOST    UNDER  265 

disappointed  him.  He  found  private  custom  hard  to 
win,  and  even  the  ceasing  of  French  dairy  supplies, 
owing  to  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  did  not  bring  him 
the  relief  he  had  hoped.  One  or  two  small  farms  on  the 
borders  of  Rye  catered  in  dairy  stuff  for  its  inhabitants, 
and  he  found  them  hard  to  outbid  or  outwit.  Also, 
owing  to  the  scarcity  of  grass  feed,  it  was  a  bad  milk 
year,  and  poor  supplies  were  put  down  by  consumers  to 
the  new  milkman,  and  in  more  than  one  case  custom 
was  withdrawn. 

Reuben  faced  his  adversity  with  set  teeth  and  a 
dogged  countenance.  He  had  not  been  farming  thirty 
odd  years  to  be  beaten  casually  by  the  weather.  Scorch- 
ing heat  and  blighting  cold,  the  still  blanker  doom  of  the 
trickling,  pouring  rain — the  wind  that  seeded  his  corn, 
and  beat  down  his  hay,  and  flung  his  hop-bines  together 
in  muddled  heaps — the  pests  that  Nature  breeds  by  the 
ten  million  out  of  her  own  putrefyings  and  misbe- 
gettings — all  things  in  life  from  the  lowest  maggot  to 
the  fiercest  storm — he  was  out  to  fight  them.  In 
challenging  Boarzell  he  had  challenged  them  all. 

In  time  his  struggle  began  to  modify  his  relations  with 
Rose.  At  first  he  had  told  himself  that  her  uselessness 
was  only  apparent.  Though  she  herself  did  no  fighting, 
she  gave  such  rest  and  refreshment  to  the  soldier  that  he 
went  forth  strengthened  to  the  war.  He  had  almost 
begun  to  attribute  to  her  his  daily  renewed  courage,  and 
had  once  or  twice  been  moved  to  show  his  gratitude  by 
acts  of  expensive  indulgence. 

Now  slowly  he  began  to  see  that  this  gratitude  was 
misleading — better  receive  no  comfort  from  Rose  than 
pay  for  it  too  dear.  He  must  make  her  understand  that 
he  could  not  afford  to  keep  a  useless  and  extravagant 
wife,  however  charming  she  might  be.  Rose  must  do 
her  share,  as  Naomi  had  done,  as  his  mother  had  done, 
as  his  children  had  done. 

Sometimes  he  would  expostulate  with  her,  and  when 


266  SUSSEX    GORSE 

she  met  his  expostulations  with  blandishments,  he  would 
feel  himself  yielding,  and  grow  so  furious  that  he  would 
turn  upon  her  in  rage  and  indignation.  Rose  was  not 
like  Naomi ;  in  her  own  words  "  she  gave  as  good  as  she 
got,"  and  once  or  twice,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
Reuben  found  himself  in  loud  and  vulgar  altercation 
with  a  female.  He  had  never  before  had  a  woman  stand 
up  to  him,  and  the  experience  was  humiliating. 

He  had  used  to  turn  from  Boarzell  to  her  for  rest,  and 
now  he  found  himself  turning  from  her  to  Boarzell.  It 
was  part  of  the  baffling  paradox  that  the  thing  he 
fought  should  also  be  the  thing  he  loved,  and  the  battle- 
field his  refuge.  Out  on  the  Moor,  with  the  south-west 
wind  rolling  over  him  like  the  waves  of  some  huge  earth- 
scented  sea,  he  drank  in  the  spirit  of  conflict,  he  was 
swept  back  into  the  cleanness  and  singleness  of  his 
warfare.  It  was  then  that  Boarzell  nerved  him  for  its 
own  subduing,  stripped  his  heart  of  softness,  cleansed  it 
of  domestic  fret.  Rose  and  her  love  and  sweetness  were 
all  very  well,  but  he  was  out  for  something  greater  than 
Rose — he  must  keep  in  mind  that  she  was  only  a  part  of 
things.  Why,  he  himself  was  only  a  part  of  things,  and 
in  his  cravings  and  softenings  must  be  conquered  and 
brushed  aside  even  as  Rose.  In  challenging  Boarzell  he 
had  challenged  the  secret  forces  of  his  own  body,  all  the 
riot  of  hope  and  weakness  and  desire  that  go  to  make 
a  man.  The  battle  was  not  to  be  won  except  over  the 
heaped  bodies  of  the  slain,  and  on  the  summit  of  the 
heap  would  lie  his  own. 


The  last  piece  of  land  had  been  exceptionally  tough 
even  for  Boarzell.  It  was  a  high  strip,  running  right 
across  the  Moor  from  the  edge  of  the  twenty-acre  piece 
acquired  in  '67,  over  the  high-road,  to  the  borders  of 
Doozes.  The  soil  was  amazingly  various — it  started  in 


ALMOST    UNDER  267 

the  low  grounds  almost  as  clay,  with  runnels  of  red 
water  in  the  irrigation  ditches,  then  passing  through  a 
stratum  of  marl  it  became  limish,  grey  and  brittle, 
powdering  under  the  spade.  Reuben's  ploughs  tore  over 
it,  turning  up  earth  of  almost  every  consistency  and 
colour,  till  the  new  ground  looked  like  a  smeared  palette. 
Towards  Doozes  it  became  clay  again,  and  here  oats 
would  grow,  sedge-leaved  and  tulip-rooted,  with  puffy 
awns.  On  the  crest  was  rubble,  poor  stuff  where  even  the 
heather  seemed  to  fight  for  existence. 

Reuben  struggled  untiringly — he  tried  manure  as  in 
his  first  enterprising  days,  and  a  horrible  stink  of  guano 
told  traffic  on  the  road  it  was  passing  through  Odiam 
territory.  Spades  and  ploughshares  and  harrows  scored 
and  pulped  the  earth.  Sometimes  with  breaking  back 
and  aching  head,  the  sweat  streaming  over  his  skin,  he 
would  lift  himself  stiffly  from  the  plough-handles,  and 
shake  his  fist  at  the  desert  round  him.  He  had  never 
had  such  a  tussle  before,  and  put  it  down  to  the  fact 
that  he  was  now  for  the  first  time  on  the  high  ground, 
on  the  hard  and  sterile  scab  of  the  marl,  where  it 
seemed  as  if  only  gorse  would  grow.  He  felt  as  if  now 
for  the  first  time  he  was  fighting  against  odds,  his 
earlier  struggles  were  tame  compared  with  this. 

Often  in  the  evenings,  when  the  exhausting  work  of 
the  day  was  done,  he  would  wander  out  on  the  Moor, 
seeking  as  usual  rest  on  the  field  of  his  labours.  The 
tuft  of  firs  would  grow  black  and  featureless  against  the 
dimming  sky,  and  stars  would  hang  pale  lamps  above  the 
fog,  which  smoked  round  Boarzell,  veiling  the  fields,  till 
it  seemed  as  if  he  stood  alone  on  some  desert  island,  in 
the  midst  of  a  shoreless  sea.  All  sounds  would  be 
muffled,  lights  and  shadows  would  blur,  and  he  would 
be  alone  with  the  fir-clump  and  the  stars  and  the  strong 
smells  of  his  land. 

He  would  wait  there  till  the  dew  hung  in  pearls  on  his 
clothes  and  hair,  and  the  damp  chills  of  the  night  were 


268  SUSSEX    GORSE 

in  his  bones.  Then  he  would  creep  down  from  the  Moor, 
and  go  back  into  the  warmth  and  love  of  the  house — 
yet  with  this  difference  now,  that  he  never  quite  forgot. 

He  would  wake  during  the  night  after  cruel  dreams  of 
Boarzell  stripped  of  its  tilth,  relapsed  into  wildness  ; 
for  a  few  agonised  moments  he  would  wonder  if  the 
dream  were  true,  and  if  he  had  not  indeed  failed.  Some- 
times he  had  to  get  out  of  bed  and  steal  to  the  window, 
to  reassure  himself  with  the  sight  of  his  diggings  and 
fencings.  Then  a  horrible  thought  would  attack  him, 
that  though  he  had  not  yet  actually  failed,  he  was 
bound  to  fail  soon,  that  his  task  was  too  much  for  him, 
and  only  one  end  possible.  He  would  creep  back  into 
bed,  and  lie  awake  till  dawn  and  the  restarting  of  the 
wheel. 

One  comfort  was  that  these  evil  summers  had  blighted 
Grandturzel  too.  Realf  s  fruit  and  grain  had  both  done 
badly,  and  he  had  been  unfortunate  with  his  cows,  two 
of  which  had  died  of  garget.  It  was  now  that  the 
characters  of  the  two  rivals  were  contrasted.  Realf 
submitted  at  once  to  adversity,  cut  down  his  expenses, 
and  practically  withdrew  from  the  fight.  Ambitious  and 
enterprising  when  times  were  good,  he  was  not  the  man 
to  be  still  ambitious  and  enterprising  when  they  were 
bad.  The  greatness  of  his  farm  was  not  so  much  to 
him  as  the  comfort  of  his  family.  He  now  had  a  little 
son,  and  was  anxious  that  neither  he  nor  Tilly  should 
suffer  from  bad  speculations.  He  despised  Reuben  for 
putting  Odiam  before  his  wife  and  children,  and  defying 
adversity  at  the  expense  of  his  household. 

"  He'll  do  fur  himself,"  he  said  to  Tilly,  as  he  watched 
her  bath  the  baby  before  the  fire,  "  and  where'll  his  old 
farm  be  then  ?  " 

"  He's  more  likely  to  do  fur  someone  else,"  said  Tilly, 
who  knew  her  father. 

"  Wot  about  this  gal  he's  married  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry  fur  her."j 


ALMOST    UNDER  269 

"  But  she  doan't  look  as  if  she  wantecj  it,  surelye.  I 
never  see  anything  so  smart  and  well-set-up  as  she  wur  in 
church  last  Sunday." 

"  Still,  I'm  sorry  fur  her — I'm  sorry  fur  any  woman 
as  he  takes  up  with.  Now,  Henry,  you  can't  kiss  baby 
while  I'm  bathing  him." 

It  sometimes  grieved  Tilly  that  she  could  not  do  more 
for  her  brothers  and  sister.  Pete  did  not  want  her  help, 
being  quite  happy  in  his  work  on  the  farm.  But  Jemmy 
and  Caro  hated  their  bondage,  and  she  wished  she  could 
set  them  free.  Reuben  had  sternly  forbidden  his 
children  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  recreant  sister, 
but  they  occasionally  met  on  the  road,  or  on  the  foot- 
path across  Boarzell.  Once  Caro  had  stolen  a  visit  to 
Grandturzel,  and  held  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and 
watched  her  sister  put  him  to  bed  ;  but  she  was  far  too 
frightened  of  Reuben  to  come  again. 

On  Reuben's  marriage  Tilly  had  hoped  that  Rose 
might  do  something  for  Caro,  and  indeed  the  girl  had 
lately  seemed  to  have  a  few  more  treats  and  pleasures 
in  her  life  ;  but  from  what  she  had  heard  and  from  what 
she  saw,  the  younger  sister  was  afraid  that  Rose's  good 
offices  were  not  likely  to  make  for  Caro's  ultimate 
happiness.  Then  comfortable  little  Tilly  would  sigh  in 
the  midst  of  her  own,  and  wish  that  everyone  could 
have  what  she  had  been  given. 

Benjamin  occasionally  stole  afternoons  in  Rye — if  he 
was  discovered  there  would  be  furious  scenes  with 
Reuben,  but  he  had  learned  cunning,  and  also,  being  of 
a  sporting  nature,  was  willing  to  take  risks.  Some 
friends  of  his  were  building  a  ship  down  at  the  Camber. 
Week  by  week  he  watched  her  grow,  watched  the  good 
timber  fill  in  her  ribs,  watched  her  decks  spread  them- 
selves, watched  her  masts  rise,  and  at  last  smelt  the 
good  smell  of  her  tarring.  She  was  a  three-masted 
schooner,  and  her  first  voyage  was  to  be  to  the  Canaries. 
Her  builders  drank  many  a  toast  with  Backfield's 


270  SUSSEX    GORSE 

truant  son,  who  gladly  risked  his  father's  blows  to  be 
with  them  in  their  work  and  hearty  boozing.  He  forgot 
the  farmyard  smells  he  hated  in  the  shipyard  smells  he 
loved,  and  his  slavery  in  oaths  and  rum — with  buckets  of 
tar  and  coils  of  rope,  and  rousing  chanties  and  stories 
of  strange  ships. 

Next  spring  the  news  came  to  Odiam  that  Benjamin 
had  run  away  to  sea. 

§9. 

It  was  Rose  who  had  to  tell  Reuben. 

Benjamin  had  given  no  one  the  faintest  hint  of  his 
plans ;  indeed  for  the  last  two  or  three  weeks  his  behaviour 
had  been  unusually  good.  Then  one  morning,  when 
Reuben  was  at  Robertsbridge  market,  he  disappeared 
— Handshut  could  not  find  him  to  take  his  place  in  the 
lambing  shed.  Rose  was  angry,  for  she  had  wanted 
young  Handshut  to  hang  some  curtains  for  her — one 
cause  of  disagreement  between  her  and  Reuben  was  her 
habit  of  coaxing  the  farm-hands  to  do  odd  jobs  about 
the  house. 

That  same  evening,  before  her  husband  was  back,  a 
letter  came  for  Rose.  It  was  from  Benjamin  at  Rye, 
announcing  that  he  was  sailing  that  night  in  the  Rother 
Lady  for  Las  Palm  as.  He  was  sick  of  the  farm,  and 
could  not  stand  it  any  longer.  Would  Rose  tell  his 
father  ? 

Rose  was  not  sorry  to  see  the  last  of  Benjamin,  whom 
she  had  always  despised  as  a  coarse  lumpkinish  youth, 
whose  clothes  smelt  strongly  either  of  pitch  or  manure. 
But  she  dreaded  breaking  the  news  to  Reuben.  She 
disliked  her  husband's  rages,  and  now  she  would  have 
to  let  one  loose.  Then  suddenly  she  thought  of  some- 
thing, and  a  little  smile  dimpled  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

Reuben  came  in  tired  after  a  day's  prodding  and 
bargaining  in  Robertsbridge  market-place.  Rose,  like 


ALMOST    UNDER  271 

a  wise  woman,  gave  him  his  supper,  and  then,  still  wise, 
came  and  sat  on  his  knee. 

"  Ben  .  .  & 

"  Well,  liddle  Rose." 

"  I've  some  bad  news  for  you." 

"  Wot  ?  " 

"  Jemmy's  gone  for  a  sailor." 

He  suddenly  thrust  her  from  him,  and  the  lines  which 
had  begun  to  soften  on  his  face  as  he  held  her,  re- 
appeared in  their  old  harshness  and  weariness. 

"  Gone  !  " 

"  Yes.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  evening.  He 
couldn't  stand  Odiam  any  longer,  so  he  ran  away.  He's 
sailed  for  a  place  called  Palma." 

Reuben  did  not  speak.  His  hands  were  clenched  on 
the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  for  the  first  time  Rose  noticed 
that  he  looked  old.  A  faint  feeling  of  disgust  came  over 
her.  She  shivered,  and  took  a  step  backwards  as  if  she 
would  leave  him.  Then  her  warm  good  nature  and  her 
gratitude  to  the  man  who  had  made  her  so  happy, 
drove  away  the  unnatural  mood.  She  came  close,  and 
slipped  her  soft  arms  round  his  neck,  pressing  her  lips 
to  his. 

He  groaned. 

"  You  mustn't  fret,  Reuben." 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ? — they're  all  gone  now  save  one 
.  .  .  my  boys.  .  .  ." 

"  Perhaps  there'll  be  others." 

She  had  slid  back  to  his  knee,  and  the  weight  and 
warmth  of  her  comforted  him  a  little.  He  lifted  his 
head  quickly  at  her  words. 

"  Others  ?  " 

"  Yes,  why  not  ?  " 

Her  bold  sweet  eyes  were  looking  into  his  and  her 
mouth  was  curved  like  a  heart. 

"  Rose,  Rose — my  dear,  my  liddle  dear — you  doan't 
mean " 


272  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Of  course  I  mean.  You  needn't  look  so  surprised. 
Such  a  thing  has  been  known  to  happen." 

"  Doan't  go  laughing  at  me,  but  tell  me — when  ?  " 

"  In  October." 

"  Oh,  God  !  oh,  God  !  " 

His  rapture  and  excitement  alarmed  her.  His  eyes 
blazed — he  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  in  ecstasy. 
Then  he  seized  her,  and  crumpled  her  to  him,  covering 
her  face,  her  neck,  her  hair,  her  ears,  with  kisses,  mur- 
muring broken  phrases  of  adoration  and  gratitude. 

Rose  was  definitely  frightened,  and  broke  free  with 
some  violence. 

"  Oh,  stop  it,  Ben  !  can't  you  see  you're  spoiling  my 
dress  ?  Why  should  you  get  in  such  a  taking  ?  You've 
had  children  before,  and  they've  all  been  failures — I 
expect  this  one  will  only  be  like  the  rest." 

§10. 

Rose's  child  was  born  towards  the  end  of  October. 
Once  more  Reuben  had  a  son,  and  as  he  looked  down  on 
the  little  red  hairless  thing  all  his  hopes  and  dreams 
were  built  anew.  He  had  always  lived  too  near  the  earth 
to  let  experience  thump  him  into  cynicism.  He  raised 
as  glorious  dreams  over  this  baby  as  he  had  raised  over 
the  others,  and  seen  crumble  into  ashes.  Indeed,  the 
fact  that  his  earlier  hopes  had  failed  made  him  warm 
himself  more  gratefully  at  this  rekindling.  He  saw 
himself  at  last  raised  out  of  the  pit  of  difficulty — he 
would  not  lose  this  boy  as  he  had  lost  the  others,  he 
would  perhaps  be  softer  and  more  indulgent,  he  would 
at  all  events  be  wiser,  and  the  child  should  indeed  be  a 
son  to  him  and  to  Odiam.  "  Unto  Us — Reuben  and 
Odiam — a  child  is  born  ;  unto  Us  a  son  is  given." 

He  was  soon  confirmed  in  his  idea  that  the  birth  had 
brought  him  luck.  Before  little  David  was  a  week  old, 
the  welcome  news  came  that  Lardner  had  died.  For 


ALMOST    UNDER  273 

some  time  he  had  been  able  to  swallow  only  milk  food, 
and  his  speech  had  been  reduced  to  a  confused  roaring, 
but  his  death  at  this  juncture  seemed  to  Reuben  a  happy 
coincidence,  an  omen  of  good  fortune  for  himself  and  his 
son. 

He  was  so  pleased  that  he  forgot  to  veil  his  pleasure 
before  Rose,  whose  grief  reminded  him  of  the  fact  that 
Lardner  was  a  near  and  dear  relation,  whose  death  must 
be  looked  upon  as  a  chastisement  from  heaven.  In  a  fit 
of  compunction  for  his  behaviour,  he  ordered  a  complete 
suit  of  mourning,  in  which  he  attended  the  funeral.  He 
was  soft  and  benign  to  all  men  now,  and  soothed  Rose's 
ruffled  spirit  by  showing  himself  to  her  in  all  the  glory  of 
a  top-hat  with  crape  weepers  before  setting  out  for 
Starvecrow. 

He  himself  had  helped  plan  the  obsequies,  which 
were  carried  out  with  all  possible  pomp  by  a  Rye  under- 
taker. After  the  ceremony  there  was  a  funeral  meal  at 
Starvecrow,  where  sedate  joints  and  solemn  whiskies 
were  partaken  of  in  the  right  spirit  by  the  dozen  or  so 
men  and  women  who  were  privileged  to  hear  old  Lardner's 
will.  This  was  read  by  the  deceased's  lawyer,  and  one 
or  two  pleased  malicious  glances  were  darted  at  Reuben 
from  under  decorously  lowered  lids.  He  sat  with  his 
fists  doubled  upon  his  knees,  hearing  as  if  in  a  night- 
mare : 

"  I  bequeath  the  farm  of  Starvecrow,  with  all  lands, 
stock,  and  tools  pertaining  thereto,  also  the  house  and 
fixtures,  together  with  seven  thousand  pounds  to 
Henry  Robert  Crick  of  Lone  Mills,  Ontario,  Canada, 
my  dear  son  by  Marion  Crick.  .  .  .  My  household  furniture 
and  fifty  pounds  free  of  legacy  duty  I  bequeath  to  my 
niece,  Rose  Backfield,  wife  of  Reuben  Backfield  of 
Odiam." 

Reuben  felt  dazed  and  sick,  the  solemn  faces  of  the 
T 


274  SUSSEX    GORSE 

mourners  seemed  to  leer  at  him,  he  was  seized  by  a 
contemptuous  hatred  of  his  kind.  There  was  some 
confused  buzzing  talk,  but  he  did  not  join  in  it.  He 
shook  hands  deliriously  with  the  lawyer,  muttered  some- 
thing about  having  to  get  back,  and  elbowed  his  way 
out  of  the  room.  Pete  had  driven  over  to  fetch  him  in 
his  gig,  as  befitted  the  dignity  of  a  yeoman  fanner  and 
nephew-by-marriage  of  the  deceased,  but  Reuben 
angrily  bade  him  go  home  alone.  He  could  not  sit  still, 
he  must  walk,  stride  off  his  fury,  the  frenzy  of  rage  and 
disgust  and  disappointment  that  consumed  him. 

What  business  had  old  Lardner  to  have  a  natural 
son  ?  Never  had  the  laws  of  morality  seemed  to  Reuben 
so  august  and  necessary  as  then,  or  their  infringement 
more  contemptible.  He  was  filled  with  a  righteous 
loathing  of  this  crapulous  libertine  who  perpetuated 
the  vileness  of  some  low  intrigue  by  bequeathing  his 
worldly  goods  to  his  bastard.  Meantime  his  virtuously 
married  niece  was  put  off  with  fifty  pounds  and  some 
trashy  furniture.  Reuben  fairly  grovelled  before  the 
seventh  commandment  that  afternoon. 

He  staggered  blindly  along  the  road.  His  head  swam 
with  rage,  and  also,  it  must  be  confessed,  with  something 
else — for  he  was  not  used  to  drinking  whisky,  which 
some  obscure  local  tradition  considered  the  only  decent 
beverage  at  funerals.  His  face  was  flushed,  and  every 
now  and  then  something  would  be  whirled  round  by 
the  wind  and  whip  his  cheeks  and  blind  him  momentarily 
in  a  black  cloud.  At  first  he  was  too  confused  to  grapple 
with  it,  but  when  two  long  black  arms  suddenly  wound 
themselves  about  his  neck,  nearly  choking  him,  he 
remembered  his  hat  with  the  crape  weepers,  and  his 
rage  from  red-hot  became  white-hot  and  cinerating. 
He  tore  off  the  hat  with  its  long  black  tails,  and  flung  it 
into  the  ditch  with  a  volley  of  those  emasculate  oaths 
which  are  all  the  swearing  of  a  Sussex  man. 

Afterwards  he  felt  better,  but  he  was  still  fuming 


ALMOST    UNDER  275 

when  he  came  to  Odiam,  and  dashed  up  straight  to 
Rose's  bedroom,  where  she  lay  with  the  ten-days-old 
David  and  a  female  friend  from  Rye,  who  had  come  in 
to  hear  details  about  her  confinement.  Both,  not  to 
say  all  three,  were  startled  by  Reuben's  sudden  entrance, 
crimson  and  hatless,  his  collar  flying,  the  dust  all  over 
him. 

"  Here  !  Wot  d'you  think  ?  "  he  shouted ;  "  if  that 
old  man  aun't  left  all  his  money  to  a  bastard." 

"  Don't  be  so  excited,  Ben,"  said  Rose;  "you've  no 
business  to  come  bursting  in  here  like  this." 

"  Remember  your  wife's  delicate,"  said  the  lady  friend. 

"  Well,  wot  I  want  to  know  is  why  you  dudn't  tell 
me  all  this  afore." 

"  How  could  I  ?  I  didn't  know  how  uncle  was  going- 
to  leave  his  money." 

"  You  might  have  found  out,  and  not  let  me  in  fur  all 
this.  Here  I've  bin  and  gone  and  spent  all  your  settle- 
ments on  a  milk-round,  which  I'd  never  have  done  if  I 
hadn't  thought  summat  more  'ud  be  coming  in  later." 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it.  I  expect  that  as  uncle  knew 
I  was  well  provided  for,  married  and  settled  and  all 
that,  he  thought  he'd  rather  leave  his  stuff  to  someone 
who  wasn't." 

"  I  like  that — and  you  the  most  expensive  woman  to 
keep  as  ever  was." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Ben.    I'm  surprised  at  you." 

"  I  justabout  will  speak.  A  purty  mess  you've  got 
me  into.  You  ought  to  have  told  me  before  we  married 
as  he  had  a  son  out  in  Canada." 

"  I  didn't  know.  This  is  the  first  I've  heard  of  it. 
Anyhow,  you  surely  don't  mean  to  say  you  married  me 
for  my  money." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  have  married  you  if  you  hadn't 
got  none." 

"  For  shame  !  "  said  the  lady  friend. 

Rose  burst  into  tears,  and  young  David,  interrupted 


276  SUSSEX    GORSE 

in  the  midst  of  an  excellent  meal,  sent  up  a  piercing 
wail. 

"  You'd  better  go  downstairs  till  you  know  how  to 
speak  to  your  wife  properly/'  said  the  female  from  Rye. 

"  My  wife's  deceived  me !  "  shouted  Reuben.  "  I  made 
sure  as  she'd  come  in  fur  thousands  of  pounds  when 
old  Lardner  died,  and  all  she's  got  out  of  him  is  fifty 
pounds  and  his  lousy  furniture." 

"  Furniture  ?  "  said  Rose,  brisking  up  ;  "  why  from 
what  you  said  I  thought  there  was  nothing.  I  could  do 
with  some  furniture.  I  want  a  bedstead  with  brass 
knobs." 

"  Well,  you  shan't  have  it.  I'll  justabout  sett  the 
whole  lot.  You  can't  prevent  me." 

Rose's  sobs  burst  forth  afresh.  Her  friend  ran  up  to 
her  and  took  her  in  her  arms,  badly  squeezing  poor 
David,  who  became  purple  and  entirely  animal  in  his 
remonstrances. 

Then  the  two  women  fairly  stormed  at  Reuben.  They 
told  him  he  was  a  money-grubber,  an  unnatural  father, 
that  he  had  been  drinking,  that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  himself,  that  he  had  only  got  what  he  deserved. 
Reuben  tried  to  stand  up  to  them,  but  Rose  had  an 
amazing  power  of  invective,  and  her  friend,  who  was  a 
spinster,  but  sometimes  forgot  it,  filled  in  the  few 
available  pauses  so  effectively  that  in  the  end  the 
wretched  husband  was  driven  from  the  room,  feeling 
that  the  world  held  even  worse  things  than  wealthy 
and  perfidious  libertines. 

§n. 

Of  course  there  was  a  reconciliation.  Such  things  had 
begun  to  loom  rather  large  in  Reuben's  married  life.  He 
had  never  had  reconciliations  with  Naomi — the  storms 
hadjiot  been  fierce  enough  to  warrant  a  special  celebra- 
tion of  the  calms.  But  he  and  Rose  were  always  being 


ALMOST    UNDER  277 

reconciled.  At  first  he  had  looked  upon  these  episodes  as 
sweets  of  matrimony,  more  blessed  than  any  amount  of 
honeymoon,  but  now  he  had  gone  a  stage  further  and 
saw  them  merely  as  part  of  the  domestic  ritual — that 
very  evening  when  he  held  Rose  and  the  baby  together 
in  his  big  embrace  he  knew  that  in  a  day  or  two  he  would 
be  staling  the  ceremony  by  another  repetition. 

He  now  began  to  crave  for  her  active  interest  in  his 
concerns.  Hitherto  he  had  not  much  missed  it,  it  had 
been  enough  for  him  if  when  he  came  in  tired  and 
dispirited  from  his  day's  work,  she  had  kissed  him  and 
rumpled  back  the  hair  from  his  forehead  and  called  him 
her  "  poor  old  man."  Her  caresses  and  sympathy  had 
filled  the  gap  left  by  her  help  and  understanding.  But 
now  he  began  to  want  something  more.  He  saw  the 
hollowness  of  her  endearments,  for  she  did  nothing  to 
make  his  burden  lighter.  She  refused  to  realise  the 
seriousness  of  his  position — left  stranded  with  an  under 
taking  which  he  would  never  have  started  if  he  had  not 
been  certain  of  increased  capital  in  the  near  future.  She 
was  still  extravagant  and  fond  of  pleasure,  she  either 
could  not  or  would  not  master  the  principles  of  economy  ; 
she  saw  the  fat  lands  of  Odiam  round  her,  and  laughed  at 
her  husband  when  he  told  her  that  he  was  crippled  with 
expenses,  and  in  spite  of  crops  and  beasts  and  barns 
must  live  as  if  he  were  a  poor  man. 

Of  course,  he  had  been  rash — he  saw  now  that  he  had 
been  a  fool  to  speculate  with  the  future.  But  who  could 
have  foretold  that  heir  of  Lardner's  ? — no  one  had  ever 
heard  of  him  in  Peasmarsh,  and  most  people  were  as 
astonished  as  Reuben  though  not  so  disgusted.  Some- 
times he  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  Lardner  himself  had 
not  thought  much  about  his  distant  son  till  a  year  or 
two  ago.  He  remembered  how  the  old  man  had  dis- 
approved of  the  way  Rose's  settlements  were  spent,  and 
horrible  conjectures  would  assail  him  that  some  earlier 
will  had  been  revoked,  and  Rose  disinherited  because  her 


278  SUSSEX    GORSE 

uncle  did  not  wish  to  put  more  money  into  her  husband's 
pocket. 

After  all,  fifty  pounds  and  some  furniture  was  very 
little  to  leave  his  only  niece,  who  had  lived  with  him, 
and  had  been  married  from  his  house.  It  was  nonsense 
to  plead  the  excuse  that  she  was  comfortably 'settled 
and  provided  for — the  old  man  knew  that  Backfield  had 
made  a  desperate  plunge  and  could  not  recoup  himself 
properly  without  ready  money.  He  must  have  drawn 
up  his  will  in  the  spirit  of  malice — Reuben  could  imagine 
him  grinning  away  in  his  grave.  "  Well,  Ben  Backfield, 
I've  justabout  sold  you  nicely,  haven't  I  ? — next  to  no 
capital,  tedious  heavy  expenses,  and  a  wife  who  doan't 
know  the  difference  between  a  shilling  and  a  soverun. 
You  thought  you'd  done  yourself  unaccountable  well, 
old  feller,  I  reckon.  Now  you've  found  out  your 
mistake.  And  you  can't  git  even  wud  me  where  I  am. 
He!  He!" 

Reuben  would  imagine  the  corpse  saying  all  sorts  of 
insulting  things  to  him,  and  he  had  horrible  nightmares 
of  its  gibes  and  mockery.  One  night  Rose  woke  in  the 
dubious  comfort  of  the  new  brass  bed — which  she  had 
wheedled  Reuben  into  sparing  from  the  auction — to 
find  her  husband  kneeling  on  his  pillow  and  pinning  some 
imaginary  object  against  the  wall  while  he  shouted — 
"  I've  got  you,  you  old  grinning  ghosty — now  we'll  see 
who's  sold  !  " 

She  thought  this  immensely  funny,  and  retailed  it 
with  glee  to  her  female  friends  who  continued  to  invade 
the  place.  The  multitude  of  these  increased  as  time  went 
by,  for  Rose  had  the  knack  of  attaching  women  to  her- 
self by  easy  bonds.  She  was  extremely  confidential  on 
intimate  subjects,  and  she  was  interested  in  clothes — 
indeed  in  that  matter  she  was  even  practical,  and  a  vast 
amount  of  dressmaking  was  done  on  the  kitchen  table, 
much  to  the  disorganisation  of  Caro's  cooking. 

Sometimes  there  would  be  males  too,  and  Reuben 


ALMOST    UNDER  279 

found  that  he  could  be  jealous  on  occasion.  It  annoyed 
him  to  see  a  young  counter-jumper  from  Rye  sitting  in 
the  parlour  with  an  unmanly  tea-cup,  and  he  would 
glare  on  such  aristocracy  as  a  bank-clerk  or  embryo 
civil  servant,  whose  visits  Rose  considered  lent  a 
glamour  to  Odiam.  Like  a  wise  woman  she  used  her 
husband's  jealousy  to  her  own  advantage.  She  soon 
grew  extremely  skilful  in  manipulating  it,  and  by  its 
means  wrung  a  good  deal  out  of  him  which  would  not 
otherwise  have  been  hers. 

It  was  true  that  her  young  men  were  not  always  on 
the  spot  when  she  wanted  them  most,  but  on  these 
occasions  she  used  the  drover  Handshut,  a  comely,  well- 
set-up  young  fellow,  of  independent  manners.  Reuben 
more  than  once  had  to  drive  him  out  of  the  kitchen. 

"  I  woan't  have  my  lads  fooling  it  in  the  house,"  he 
said  to  his  wife,  when  he  found  her  winding  a  skein  of 
wool  off  Handshut's  huge  brown  paws — "  they've  work 
enough  to  do  outside  wudout  spannelling  after  you 
women." 

Rose  smiled  to  herself,  and  when  she  next  had 
occasion  to  punish  Reuben,  invited  his  drover  to  a  cup 
of  tea. 

Then  there  was  an  angry  scene,  stormings  and  tears, 
regrets,  taunts,  and  abuse — and  another  reconciliation. 


In  time,  as  these  battles  became  more  usual,  the 
family  were  forced  to  take  sides.  Peter  supported 
Reuben,  Caro  supported  Rose.  There  had  been  an  odd 
kind  of  friendship  between  the  downtrodden  daughter 
and  the  gay  wife  ever  since  they  had  unpacked  the 
latter's  trunks  together  on  her  wedding  night  and  Caro 
had  cried  because  Rose  had  what  she  might  never  have. 

Rose  approved  of  this  attitude — she  liked  to  be  envied ; 
also  Caro  was  useful  to  her  in  many  ways,  helping  her 


280  SUSSEX    GORSE 

in  the  house,  taking  the  burden  of  many  irksome  duties 
off  her  shoulders,  leaving  her  free  to  entertain  her  friends 
or  mix  complexion  washes.  Moreover,  there  was  some- 
thing in  Caro  which  appealed  in  itself,  a  certain  heavy 
innocence  which  tickled  the  humour  of  the  younger, 
more-experienced  woman.  Once  her  stepdaughter  had 
asked  her  what  it  felt  like  to  be  kissed,  which  had  sent 
Rose  into  rockings  of  laughter  and  a  carnival  of  remin- 
iscence. She  liked  to  dazzle  this  elderly  child  with  her 
"  affairs,"  she  liked  to  shock  her  a  little  too.  She  soon 
discovered  that  Caro  was  deeply  scandalised  at  the 
thought  of  a  married  woman  having  men  friends  to  visit 
her,  so  she  encouraged  the  counter-jumpers  and  the 
clerks  for  Caro's  benefit  as  well  as  Reuben's. 

It  never  occurred  to  her  to  throw  these  young  people 
together,  and  give  the  girl  a  chance  of  fighting  her 
father  and  satisfying  the  vague  longings  for  adventure 
and  romance  which  had  begun  to  put  torment  into  her 
late  twenties.  She  often  told  her  it  was  a  scandal  that  she 
had  never  been  allowed  to  know  men,  but  her  own  were 
too  few  and  useful  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  forlorn.  Besides, 
Caro  had  an  odd  shy  way  with  men  which  sometimes 
made  them  laugh  at  her.  She  had  little  charm,  and 
though  not  bad-looking  in  a  heavy  black-browed  style, 
she  had  no  feminine  arts,  and  always  appeared  to  the 
very  worst  advantage. 

Those  were  not  very  good  times  for  Caro.  She  envied 
Rose,  and  at  the  same  time  she  loved  her,  as  women  will 
so  often  love  those  they  envy.  Rose's  attitude  was  one 
of  occasional  enthusiasm  and  occasional  neglect.  Some- 
times she  would  give  her  unexpected  treats,  make  her 
presents  of  clothes,  or  take  her  to  a  fair  or  to  see  the 
shops ;  at  others  she  would  seem  to  forget  all  about 
her.  She  thought  Caro  a  poor  thing  for  not  standing  up 
to  Reuben,  and  despised  her  for  her  lack  of  feminine 
wiles.  At  the  same  time  she  would  often  be  extremely 
confidential,  she  would  pour  out  stories  of  love  and 


ALMOST    UNDER  281 

kisses  by  moonlight,  of  ardent  words,  of  worship,  of 
ecstasy,  and  send  Caro  wandering  over  strange  paths, 
asking  strange  questions  of  herself  and  fate,  and  some- 
times— to  the  other's  delight — of  Rose. 

"  Wot  do  you  do  to  make  a  man  kiss  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dunno.  I  just  look  at  him  like  this  with  my 
eyes  half  shut.  Then  if  that  isn't  enough  I  part  my 
lips — so/' 

The  two  women  had  been  bathing.  It  was  one  of 
Rose's  complaints  that  Odiam  did  not  make  enough 
provision  for  personal  cleanliness  in  the  way  of  baths 
and  tubs.  Reuben  objected  if  she  made  the  servant  run 
up  and  downstairs  ten  times  or  so  with  jugs  of  hot  water 
to  fill  a  wash-tub  in  her  bedroom — they  had  once  had  a 
battle  royal  about  it,  during  which  Rose  had  said  some 
humorous  things  about  her  man's  washing  —  so  in 
summer  she  relieved  the  tension  by  bathing  in  the 
Glotten  brook,  where  it  ran  temporarily  limpid  and 
reclused  at  the  foot  of  the  old  hop-garden.  She  had 
persuaded  Caro  to  join  her  in  this  adventure — according 
to  her  ideas  it  was  not  becoming  for  a  woman  to  bathe 
alone ;  so  Caro  had  conquered  her  objections  to  un- 
dressing behind  a  bush,  and  tasted  for  the  first  time  the 
luxury  of  a  daily,  or  all  but  daily,  bath. 

Now  they  were  dry  and  dressed  once  more,  all  except 
their  stockings,  for  Rose  loved  to  splash  her  bare  feet  in 
the  water— she  adored  the  caress  of  water  on  her  skin. 
It  was  a  hot  day,  the  sun  blinked  through  the  heavy 
green  of  the  sallows,  dabbling  the  stream  with  spots  and 
ripples  of  light.  June  had  come,  with  a  thick  swarthi- 
ness  in  the  fields,  and  the  scent  of  hayseed  scorching 
into  ripeness. 

Rose  leaned  back  against  a  trunk,  a  froth  of  fine  linen 
round  her  knees.  She  splashed  and  kicked  her  feet  in 
the  stream. 

"  Yes — I've  only  to  look  at  a  man  like  this  .  .  .  and 
he  always  does  it." 


282  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  But  not  now  !  "  cried  Caro. 

<l  What  do  you  mean  by  '  not  now  '  ?  " 

"  Now  you're  married/' 

"  Oh,  no — I'm  talking  of  before.    All  the  same  ..." 

"  Wot !  " 

"  Nothing.    You'd  be  shocked." 

Caro  looked  gloomily  at  the  water.  She  did  not  like 
being  told  she  would  be  shocked,  though  she  knew  she 
would  be. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  sound  of  "  git  back  " 
and  "  woa "  beyond  the  hedge.  The  next  minute 
two  horses  stepped  into  the  Glotten  just  by  the 
bend. 

"  That  must  be  Handshut,"  said  Rose. 

It  was.  He  came  knee-deep  into  the  water  with  the 
horses,  and,  not  seeing  the  women,  plunged  his  head 
into  the  cool  reed-sweetened  stickle. 

"  Take  care — hell  see  us  !  " — and  Caro  sharply 
gathered  up  her  legs  under  her  blue  and  red  striped 
petticoat.  Rose  continued  to  dabble  hers  in  the  water, 
even  after  Handshut  had  lifted  his  head  and  looked  in 
her  direction. 

"  Rose  !  "  cried  Caro. 

"  Well,  why  shouldn't  he  see  my  legs  ?  They're 
unaccountable  nice  ones." 

"  All  the  more  reason " 

"  Not  at  all,  Miss  Prude." 

Caro  went  crimson  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  and  began 
pulling  on  her  stockings.  Rose  continued  to  splash  her 
feet  in  the  water,  glancing  sidelong  at  Handshut. 

"  He's  a  nice  lad,  ain't  he  ?  " 

Caro  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

"  Reuben  knows  he's  a  nice  lad,  and  he  knows  I  know 
he's  a  nice  lad.  Hasn't  he  got  a  lovely  brown  skin  ?  " 

"  Hush." 

But  Rose  was  in  a  devilish  mood. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said  suddenly,  "I'm  going  to  prove 


ALMOST    UNDER  283 

the  truth  of  what  I  told  you  just  now.  I'm  going  to 
make  that  boy  kiss  me." 

"  Indeed  you  aun't." 

"  Yes  I  am.  I'll  go  down  and  talk  to  him  at  the  bend, 
and  you  can  creep  along  and  watch  us  through  the 
hedge  ;  and  I'll  shut  my  eyes  and  maybe  part  my  lips, 
and  he'll  kiss  me,  you  see  if  he  don't." 

"  I  won't  see  anything  of  the  kind.  I'm  ashamed 
of  you." 

"  Nonsense — it's  only  fun — we'll  make  a  bet  on  it.  If 
I  fail,  I'll  give  you  my  new  white  petticoat  with  the  lace 
edging.  And  I'll  allow  myself  ten  minutes  to  do  it  in  ; 
that's  quite  fair,  for  it  usually  takes  me  longer." 

"  And  what  am  I  to  give  you  if  you  succeed  ?  " 

"  Nothing — the  kiss'll  be  enough  for  me.  I've  been 
wanting  to  know  what  he  was  like  to  kiss  for  many  a 
long  day." 

"  Well,  I'm  justabout  ashamed  of  you,  and  I  woan't 
have  anything  to  do  with  it." 

"  You  can  keep  out  then." 

"  Wot  if  I  tell  faather  ?  " 

"  You  wouldn't  tell  him— you  wouldn't  be  such  a 
sneak.  After  all,  what's  a  man  for,  if  it  isn't  to  have  a 
bit  of  fun  with  ?  I  don't  mean  anything  serious — it's 
just  a  joke." 

"  What'll  Handshut  think  it  ?  " 

"  Just  a  joke  too.  You're  so  glum,  Caro — you  take 
everything  so  seriously.  There's  nothing  really  serious 
in  a  kiss." 

"  Oh,  aun't  there  !  " 

"  No — it's  just  something  one  enjoys,  same  as  cakes 
and  bull's-eyes.  I've  kissed  dozens  of  people  in  my  time 
and  meant  nothing  by  it,  nor  they  either.  It's  because 
you've  no  experience  of  these  things  that  you  think  such 
a  lot  of  'em.  They're  quite  unimportant  really,  and  it's 
silly  to  make  a  fuss." 

For  some  obscure  reason  Caro  did  not  like  to  see  her- 


284  SUSSEX    GORSE 

self  credited  with  the  harshness  of  inexperience.  She  did 
her  best  to  assume  an  air  of  worldly  toleration. 

"  Well,  of  course  if  it's  only  fun.  .  .  .  But  faather 
wudn't  think  it  that." 

"  No,  and  I  shouldn't  like  him  to.  You  are  funny, 
Caro.  Don't  watch  me  if  you're  shocked — you  can 
know  nothing  about  it,  and  then  you  won't  be  to  blame, 
But  I'm  going  to  have  my  lark  in  spite  of  you." 

"  Put  on  your  stockings  first,"  said  Caro  sternly. 

Rose  made  a  face  at  her,  but  pulled  on  a  pair  of 
gauzy  stockings,  securing  them  with  garters  of  pale 
blue  ribbon.  Then  she  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  edged 
her  way  through  the  reeds  and  bushes  to  where  young 
Handshut  stood  at  the  bend. 

He  was  not  visible  from  where  Caro  sat,  for  he  had 
come  out  of  the  water,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  she 
vowed  that  she  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  Rose's 
disgraceful  spree.  But  after  a  time  her  curiosity  got 
the  better  of  her.  Would  Rose  be  able  to  do  as  she  said 
— persuade  her  husband's  drover  to  kiss  her,  simply  by 
looking  at  him  through  half-closed  eyes  ?  Of  course 
Handshut  was  very  forward,  Caro  told  herself,  she  had 
often  disliked  his  attitude  towards  his  mistress — he 
would  not  want  much  encouragement.  All  the  same 
she  wanted  to  see  if  Rose  succeeded,  and  if  she  suc- 
ceeded— how.  She  craned  her  neck,  but  could  see 
nothing  till  she  had  crept  a  few  yards  through  the 
reeds.  Then  she  saw  Rose  and  Handshut  sitting  just 
beyond  the  hedge,  by  the  water's  rim. 

The  horses  were  drowsing  in  the  stream,  flicking  at  the 
flies  with  their  tails.  Rose's  dress  made  a  brave  blue 
splash  against  the  green,  and  the  gold-flecked  chestnut 
of  her  hair  was  very  close  to  Handshut's  brown  curls. 
Caro  could  dimly  hear  their  voices,  though  she  could  not 
distinguish  what  they  said.  Five  minutes  had  passed, 
and  still,  though  close,  there  was  a  decent  space  between 
them.  Then  there  was  a  little  lull  in  the  flow  of  talk. 


ALMOST    UNDER  285 

They  were  looking  at  each  other.  Caro  crept  nearer, 
something  like  a  hot  cinder  in  her  heart. 

They  were  still  looking  at  each  other.  Then  Hand- 
shut  began  to  speak  in  a  lower  voice  than  usual ;  he 
stopped — and  suddenly  their  heads  stooped  together, 
the  gold  and  the  brown  touched,  mingled,  lingered,  then 
drew  slowly  apart. 

Caro  sprang  to  her  feet.  The  couple  in  the  field  had 
risen  too,  but  they  did  not  see  her  through  the  hedge. 
Her  heart  beat  fiercely  with  an  uncontrollable  anger. 
She  could  have  shouted,  screamed  at  them — at  her 
rather,  this  gay,  comfortable,  plump,  spoilt  wife,  who 
had  so  many  kisses  that  she  could  look  upon  one  more 
or  less  as  fun. 

Rose's  merry,  rather  strident  laugh  rang  out  on  the 
hushed  noon.  Handshut  stood  facing  her  with  his  head 
held  down  ;  then  she  turned  away  from  him  and  laughed 
again.  Her  laugh  rose,  fluttered — then  suddenly  broke. 

It  snapped  like  a  broken  knife.  She  turned  back 
towards  Handshut,  and  they  faced  each  other  once 
more.  Then  Caro  saw  a  strange  and  rather  terrible 
thing.  She  saw  those  two  who  had  kissed  for  fun 
stumble  together  in  an  embrace  which  was  not  for  fun 
at  all,  and  kiss  with  kisses  that  were  closer  to  tears  than 
laughter. 

§13* 

There  was  a  convention  of  silence  between  Caro  and 
Rose.  From  that  day  forward  neither  made  any  allusion 
to  the  escapade  which  had  ended  so  unexpectedly.  At 
the  same  time  it  was  from  the  other's  silence  that  each 
learned  most ;  for  Caro  knew  that  if  her  eyes  had 
deceived  her  and  that  last  kiss  been  like  the  first,  for 
fun,  Rose  would  have  spoken  of  it — while  Rose  knew 
that  Caro  had  seen  the  transmutation  of  her  joke  into 
earnest,  because  if  she  had  not  she  would  have  been  full 
of  comments,  questions,  and  scoldings. 


286  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Sometimes  Caro  in  her  innocence  would  think  that  S!R 
ought  to  speak  to  Rose,  warn  her,  and  plead  with  her  to 
go  carefully.  But  a  vague  fright  sealed  her  lips,  and  she 
was  held  at  a  distance  by  the  reserve  in  which  the  merry 
communicative  Rose  had  suddenly  wrapped  herself. 
Those  few  minutes  by  the  brookside  had  changed  her, 
though  it  would  be  hard  to  say  exactly  in  what  the 
change  lay.  Caro  was  both  repelled  and  baffled  by  it. 
A  more  skilled  observer  would  say  that  Rose  had 
become  suddenly  adult  in  her  outlook  as  well  as  her 
emotions.  For  the  first  time  she  had  seen  in  its  sorrow- 
ful reality  the  force  which  she  had  played  with  for  so 
many  years.  The  shock  disorganised  her,  drove  her 
into  a  strange  silence.  Love  and  she  had  always  been 
hail-fellow-well-met,  they  had  romped  and  rollicked 
together  through  life  ;  she  had  never  thought  that  her 
good  comrade  could  change,  or  rather — more  unimagin- 
able still — that  she  should  suddenly  discover  that  she  had 
never  really  known  him. 

She  was  sobered.  Her  attitude  towards  tilings  in- 
sensibly altered — to  her  husband,  her  child,  her  servants 
she  was  different,  and  yet  in  such  a  manner  that  none 
could  possibly  lay  hands  on  the  difference.  Reuben's 
jealousies  and  suspicions  were  increased.  She  avoided 
Handshut,  and  she  flourished  the  shopmen  and  clerks 
but  feebly,  yet  he  mistrusted  her  in  a  way  he  had  never 
done  when  her  enthusiasms  were  flagrant.  This  was  not 
due  to  any  psychological  deduction,  rather  to  a  vague 
kind  of  guess,  an  intuition,  an  uneasiness  that  com- 
municated itself  from  her  to  him. 

Rose  had  begun  to  question  her  attitude  towards  her 
husband.  She  had  hitherto  never  doubted  for  a  moment 
that  she  loved  him — of  course  she  loved  him  !  But  now 
she  asked  herself — "  If  I  love  him,  how  is  it  that  our 
most  tender  moments  have  never  meant  so  much  to 
me  as  that  second  kiss  of  Handshut 's  ?  "  None  of 
Reuben's  kisses  stood  out  in  her  memory  as  that  kiss, 


ALMOST    UNDER  287 

he  had  never  made  the  thrill  of  life  go  through  her,  he 
had  never  filled  her  heart  to  bursting  with  joy  so  infinite 
that  it  was  sorrow,  and  sorrow  so  exquisite  that  it  was 
joy.  She  would  observe  Reuben,  and  she  would  see  him 
— old.  He  was  fifty-four,  and  his  hair  was  grey  ;  there 
were  crow's-feet  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  and  straight 
lines  between  his  brows,  where  he  had  furrowed  them  as 
the  pitiless  sun  beat  down  upon  his  face.  There  were 
other  lines  too,  seamed  and  scored  by  hard  struggles. 
He  was  strong  as  an  ox,  but  she  told  herself  he  was  begin- 
ning to  move  a  bit  stiffly.  He  had  exposed  himself  so 
ruthlessly  to  the  wet  and  cold  that  his  joints  had  become 
rheumatic.  It  was  nothing  very  much,  but  he  liked  to 
have  her  rub  them  occasionally,  and  up  till  then  she  had 
liked  it  too.  Now  she  suddenly  saw  something  dreary 
and  preposterous  in  it — here  she  was  married  to  a  man 
thirty  years  older  than  herself,  his  chattel,  his  slave. 
She  did  not  really  love  him — how  could  she,  with  all 
those  years  between  them  ?  She  was  fond  of  him,  that 
was  all — and  he  was  getting  older,  and  horribly  can- 
tankerous ;  and  she  was  young — oh,  God !  she  had 
never  known  till  then  how  young. 

Then  suddenly  it  all  changed.  One  day  she  found 
herself  alone  with  Handshut — and  nothing  happened. 
His  manner  was  quite  that  of  the  respectful  servant 
towards  his  mistress,  he  made  no  allusion  to  the  scene 
by  the  brook,  spoke  entirely  of  indifferent  things.  And 
she,  she  herself — that  was  the  biggest,  best  surprise  of 
all — did  not  feel  the  slightest  embarrassment,  or  the 
slightest  pang.  On  the  contrary,  all  the  passion  which 
had  scorched  and  withered  her  heart  since  the  day  of 
the  kiss,  seemed  to  die  away,  leaving  her  the  old  Rose, 
gay,  confident,  and  at  peace  with  all  men. 

She  had  been  a  fool — she  had  brooded  over  a  little 

|  trivial  incident  till  it  had  assumed  unwarranted  pro- 

j  portions  and  frightened  her.     Nothing  whatever  had 

happened  to  her  and  Handshut — they  had  shared  a  joke, 


288  SUSSEX    GORSE 

that  was  all.  She  did  not  love  him,  she  loved  her 
husband,  and  she  was  a  fool  to  have  thought  anything 
else.  Love  was  not  a  drama  or  a  tragedy,  but  a  game  and 
a  lark,  or  at  times  a  comfortable  emotion  towards  one's 
lawful  husband,  who  was  the  best  and  finest  man  in 
the  world. 

The  joy  of  this  discovery  quite  restored  Rose,  and  she 
flirted  with  Handshut  so  outrageously  in  front  of  Reuben, 
that  afterwards  they  had  one  of  the  biggest  quarrels  of 
their  lives. 

§14. 

'Seventy-four  was  another  bad  year  for  Odiam,  and  it 
was  more  hopeless  than  its  predecessors,  for  Reuben  had 
now  no  expectations  to  sustain  him.  His  position  was 
really  becoming  serious.  In  '68  he  had  bought  more 
land  than  he  could  afford,  for  fear  that  Grandturzel 
would  buy  it  if  he  did  not,  and  in  '71  he  had  started  his 
accursed  milk-round,  which  had  proved  nothing  but  an 
expense  and  a  failure.  He  still  clung  to  it,  for  the  shop 
by  the  Landgate  gave  him  prestige,  and  he  had  always 
hoped  that  affairs  would  mend,  but  he  was  gradually 
coming  to  realise  that  prestige  can  be  bought  too  dear, 
and  that  his  affairs  were  too  heavily  clogged  to  improve 
of  their  own  accord. 

He  must  take  steps,  he  must  make  some  sacrifice. 
He  resolved  to  sell  the  milk-round.  It  was  either  that 
or  a  mortgage,  and  a  mortgage  was  far  the  greater 
ignominy.  After  all  he  had  not  had  the  round  more  than 
two  or  three  years,  it  had  never  flourished,  and  the 
parting  wrench  would  not  be  a  bad  one.  Of  course  his 
reputation  would  suffer,  but  hard  cash  was  at  the  present 
moment  more  valuable  than  reputation. 

Unfortunately  it  was  also  more  difficult  to  get.  Those 
years  had  been  bad  for  everybody,  and  none  of  the 
surrounding  farmers  seemed  disposed  to  add  to  his 
burdens  by  so  uncertain  a  deal.  If  the  thing  had  not 


ALMOST    UNDER  289 

thriven  with  Backfield  it  was  not  likely  to  thrive  with 
anyone  else.  For  the  first  time  Reuben  cursed  his  own 
renown. 

However,  he  hoped  better  things  from  the  next 
spring.  If  lambing  was  good  and  the  season  promising, 
farmers  would  not  be  so  cautious.  Meantime  he  would 
keep  Odiam  in  chains,  he  would  save  every  penny,  skim, 
pare,  retrench,  and  learn  the  lesson  of  his  lean  years. 

Unfortunately  he  had  reckoned  without  Rose — Rose 
saw  no  need  for  such  drastic  measures.  Because  her 
man  had  been  venturesome  and  stupid,  made  rash 
speculations,  and  counted  on  a  quite  unwarranted 
legacy,  that  was  no  reason  for  her  to  go  without  her  new 
spring  gown  or  new  covers  for  her  parlour  chairs.  She 
was  once  more  expecting  motherhood,  and  considered 
that  as  a  reward  for  such  self-sacrifice  the  most  expen- 
sive luxuries  were  inadequate. 

At  the  same  time,  feeling  quite  at  ease  about  herself 
and  Handshut,  she  led  Reuben  a  freakish  dance  of 
jealousy,  going  to  extravagant  lengths  in  the  hope  of 
breaking  down  his  resistance  and  goading  him  into 
compliance,  But  she  did  not  find  jealousy  such  a  good 
weapon  as  it  had  used  to  be.  Reuben  would  grow 
furious,  thundery  and  abusive,  but  she  never  caught 
him,  as  formerly,  in  the  softness  of  reaction,  nor  did  the 
fear  of  a  rival  stimulate  any  more  profitable  emotion 
than  rage. 

The  truth  was  that  Reuben  had  now  become  desperate. 
He  could  not  give  in  to  Rose.  If  he  sacrificed  his  farm 
to  her  in  the  smallest  degree  he  ran  the  risk  of  ruin.  He 
was  torn  in  two  by  the  most  powerful  forces  of  his  life. 
On  one  side  stood  Odiam,  trembling  on  the  verge  of 
catastrophe,  needing  every  effort,  every  sacrifice  of  his, 
every  drop  of  his  sweat,  every  drop  of  his  blood.  On 
the  other  stood  Rose,  the  dearest  human  thing,  who 
demanded  that  for  her  sake  he  should  forget  his  farm 
and  the  hopes  bound  up  in  it.  He  would  not  do  so — 


290  SUSSEX    GORSE 

and  at  the  same  time  he  would  not  lose  Rose.  Though 
her  love  no  longer  gave  him  the  gift  of  peace,  he  still 
clung  to  it ;  her  presence,  her  voice,  her  touch,  still 
fired  and  exalted  him.  He  would  not  let  her  go — and 
he  would  not  let  Odiam  go. 

The  struggle  was  terrible  ;  it  wore  him  out.  He  fought 
it  desperately — to  neither  side  would  he  surrender  an 
inch.  Sometimes  with  Rose's  arms  about  him,  her  soft 
cheek  against  his  and  her  perfidy  forgotten,  he  would  be 
on  the  brink  of  giving  her  the  pretty  costly  thing,  what- 
ever it  was,  that  she  wanted  at  the  expense  of  Odiam. 
At  others,  out  in  his  fields,  or  on  the  slope  of  Boarzell — 
half  wild,  half  tamed  —  with  all  those  unconquered 
regions  swelling  above  him,  he  would  feel  that  he  could 
almost  gladly  lose  Rose  altogether,  if  to  keep  her  meant 
the  sacrifice  of  one  jot  of  his  ambition,  one  tittle  of  his 
hope.  Then  he  would  go  home,  and  find  her  ogling 
Handshut  through  the  window,  or  giving  tea  in  her 
most  seductive  manner  to  some  young  idiot  with  clean 
hands — and  round  would  go  the  wheel  again — round 
and  round.  .  .  . 

As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  never  been  so  secure  of 
Rose  as  then  ;  the  very  shamelessness  of  her  flirtations 
was  a  proof  of  it — a  whoop  of  joy,  so  to  speak,  at  finding 
herself  free  of  what  she  had  feared  would  be  a  devas- 
tating passion.  But  who  could  expect  Reuben  to  guess 
that  ?  He  saw  only  the  freak  of  a  treacherous  nature, 
turning  from  him  to  men  younger  and  more  compliant 
than  himself.  Jealousy,  from  a  fit,  became  a  habit.  He 
grew  restless  and  miserable — he  would  run  in  suddenly 
from  his  work  to  see  what  his  wife  was  doing,  he  would 
cross-examine  Caro,  he  would  even  ask  Pete  to  keep  an 
eye  on  her.  Sometimes  he  thought  of  dismissing  Hand- 
shut,  but  the  lad  was  an  excellent  drover,  and  Reuben 
had  bursts  of  sanity  in  which  he  saw  the  foolishness  of 
such  a  sacrifice.  Rose  flirted  nowadays  with  every  man 
she  met — she  was,  he  told  himself  furiously,  a  thoroughly 


ALMOST    UNDER 


_0  _______  0  _______________  0  0___    ____  ________  ____  ......  „ 

loss  of  a  fellow  like  Handshut. 

Thus  the  days  dragged  on  wretchedly  for  everyone 
except  Rose,  and  in  time  they  grew  wretched  for  her 
too.    She  began  to  ,tire  of  the  cracklings  of  the  flame  she 
had  kindled",  of  Reuben's  continued  distrust  and  sus- 
picion, of  Caro's  goggle-eyed  disapproval,  of  Peter's 
spying  contempt.    The  time  of  her  lying-in  drew  nearer, 
she  had  to  give  tip  her  gay  doings,  and  felt  frightened 
and  alone.     Everyone  was  against  her,  everyone  dis- 
approved of  her.    She  began  to  wish  that  she  had  not 
found  her  love  for  Handshut  to  be  an  illusion,  to  wish 
that  the  kiss  beside  the  Glotten  brook  had  been  in  reality 
what  she  had  dreamed  it  .....  After  all,  is  it  not  better 

to  embrace  the  god  and  die  than  to  go  through  the 
unhappy  days  in  darkness  ? 

§15. 

One  evening  when  Reuben  was  out  inspecting  a  sick 
cow,  Rose  lay  on  the  sofa  languidly  shelling  peas.  Once 
more  it  was  June,  and  a  rusty  heat  was  outside  blurring 
the  orchard.  Her  fingers  often  lay  idle  in  the  bowl  of 
peas,  for  though  her  task  relieved  the  sweltering  bore- 
dom which  had  weighed  on  her  all  day,  every  now  and 
then  a  great  lassitude  would  sweep  over  her,  slacking 
her  muscles,  slacking  her  thoughts,  till  she  drooped  into 
a  vague  stagnation  of  sorrow. 

She  felt  horribly,  uselessly  tired,  her  gay  spirits  had 
trickled  from  her  in  sheer  physical  discomfort,  and 
in  her  heart  an  insistent  question  writhed  like  a  little 
flame. 

Two  tears  formed  slowly  in  the  corners  of  her  eyes, 
welled  at  last  over  the  silky,  spidery  lashes,  and  rolled 
down  her  cheeks.  In  themselves  they  were  portents  — 
for  Rose  hardly  ever  cried.  More  wonderful  still,  she  did 
not  know  that  she  was  crying,  she  merely  became 


292  SUSSEX    GORSE 

stupidly  conscious  of  a  smudging  of  those  motionless 
trees  beyond  the  garden,  and  a  washing  of  the  hard, 
copper-coloured  sky. 

She  feebly  put  up  her  hand  and  brushed  the  veil  away 
— already  something  strange  had  loomed  through  it, 
whipping  her  curiosity.  A  man  was  at  the  window,  his 
head  and  shoulders  dark  against  the  sunset. 

"  Handshut !  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

She  frowned,  for  she  seemed  to  catch  a  ring  of  mockery 
in  the  respectful  words.  She  wondered  if  it  had  always 
been  there. 

"  Where's  master  ?  " 

"  In  the  shed  with  Brindle." 

"  And  how  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  dunno — we've  sent  for  the  veterinary." 

There  was  silence.  Outside  the  flowers  rustled  in  the 
slow  hot  breeze.  The  background  of  trees  was  growing 
dim,  a  web  of  shadow  at  the  foot  of  the  garden. 

Handshut  still  leaned  on  the  sill,  and  she  realised  that 
if  his  words  were  decorous,  his  attitude  was  not.  Surely 
he  had  something  better  to  do  than  hang  in  at  her 
window.  Half  his  face  was  in  shadow,  half  was  reddened 
by  the  smouldering  sky — it  was  the  face  of  a  young 
gipsy,  brown,  sullen,  and  mocking.  She  suddenly  pulled 
herself  into  a  sitting  posture. 

"  What  are  you  staying  for  ? — I  reckon  the  master 
wants  you." 

"  No — it's  you  that  wants  me,  surelye." 

The  blood  ebbed  from  her  lips.  She  felt  afraid,  and 
yet  glad.  Then  suddenly  she  realised  what  was  happen- 
ing and  dragged  herself  back  into  dignity  and  anger. 

"  I  don't  want  you." 

"  Yes  you  do." 

"  Kindly  go  at  once,  or  I  shall  call  someone." 

"  Rose  !  " 

Once  more  she  fell  back  into  her  state  of  terror  and 


ALMOST    UNDER  293 

delight.  His  coolness  seemed  to  paralyse  her — she 
could  not  act.  She  could  only  lie  and  watch  him, 
trembling.  Why  had  he  changed  so  ? — he,  who  had 
never  faltered  in  his  attitude  of  stiff  respect  under  her 
most  outrageous  and  flirtatious  digs. 

"  Rose,"  he  said  again,  and  his  voice  quivered  as  he 
said  it,  "  you  do  want  me  a  liddle  bit  now." 

"  What — what  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders — there  must  have  been 
some  foreign  streak  in  his  yokel's  blood. 

"  I  doan't  think  it — I  know.  A  year  agone  you  dudn't 
want  me,  so  I  kipt  back,  I  wurn't  a-going  to  maake  you 
suffer.  You  wur  frightened  of  that  kiss.  ..." 

He  had  spoken  it — her  terror.    "  Don't !  "  she  cried. 

"  You  wur  frightened,  so  I  saw  you  wurn't  ready,  and 
I  tried  to  maake  you  feel  as  naun  had  happened." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman,"  she  said  with 
a  sudden  rap  of  anger. 

"  I  aun't  that.  I'm  just  a  poor  labouring  man,  wot 
loves  you,  and  wot  you  love." 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  burnt  up  in  her 
mouth. 

"  And  a  labouring  man  you  love's  worth  more  than  a 
maaster  you  ddan't  love,  I  reckon." 

She  shrank  back  on  the  sofa,  folding  her  arms  over 
her  breast  and  gripping  her  shoulders. 

:<  You  needn't  look  so  frightened.  I'm  only  saying  it. 
It  woan't  maake  no  difference — unless  you  want  it  to." 

"  How  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  this  ?  " 

"  Because  I  see  you're  justabout  miserable,  and 
I  thought  I'd  say  as  how  I'm  beside  you — only 
that." 

"  How — how  d'you  know  I'm  miserable  ?  " 

"  Plain  enough." 

The  sky  had  faded  behind  him  and  a  crimson  moon 
looked  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Plain  enough,"  he  repeated,  "  but  you  needn't  be 


294  SUSSEX    GORSE 

scared.  Ill  do  naun  you  doan't  want ;  111  come  no 
nearer  you  than  I  am  now — unless  you  call  me." 

She  burst  into  tears. 

He  did  not  move.  His  head  and  shoulders  were  now 
nothing  but  a  dark  block  against  the  purple  and  blue  of 
the  sky.  The  moon  hung  just  above  him  like  a  copper 
dish. 

"  Doan't  cry,"  he  said  slowly — "  I'm  only  looking  in 
at  the  window." 

She  struggled  to  her  feet,  sobs  shaking  and  tearing 
her,  and  stumbled  through  the  darkness  to  the  door. 
Still  sobbing  she  dragged  herself  upstairs,  clinging  to  the 
rail,  and  every  now  and  then  stopping  and  bending 
double.  Her  loud  sobs  rang  through  the  house,  and 
soon  the  womenfolk  were  about  her,  questioning  her, 
soothing  her,  and  in  the  end  putting  her,  still  weeping, 
to  bed.  While  outside  in  the  barn  Reuben  watched  in 
agony  beside  a  sick  cow. 

§16. 

When  late  the  next  morning  a  woman  ran  out  of  the 
house  into  the  cow-stable,  and  told  Reuben  that  his  wife 
had  given  him  a  fine  boy,  he  merely  groaned  and  shook 
his  head. 

He  sat  on  a  stool  at  the  foot  of  Brindle's  stall,  and 
watched  her  as  she  lay  there,  slobbering  her  straw.  His 
face  was  grim  and  furrowed,  lines  scored  it  from  nose 
to  mouth  and  across  the  forehead  ;  his  hair  was  damp 
and  rough  on  his  temples,  his  eyes  were  dull  with 
sleeplessness. 

"  Woan't  yer  have  summat  feat,  maaster  ?  "  asked 
Beatup,  looking  in. 

All  Reuben  said  was  : 

"  Has  the  Inspector  come  ?  " 

"  No,  maaster — 111  bring  him  r&ound  soon  as  he  does. 
Woan't  you  have  a  bite  o'  cheese  if  I  fetch  it  ?  " 


ALMOST    UNDER  295 

Reuben  shook  his  head. 

"  Maaster "  continued  the  man  after  a  pause. 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  I  hear  as  how  it's  a  liddle  son.  .  .  ." 

Reuben  mumbled  something  inarticulate,  and  Beatup 
took  himself  off.  His  master's  head  fell  between  his 
clenched  hands,  and  as  the  cow  gave  a  sudden  slavering 
cough  in  the  straw,  a  shudder  passed  over  his  skin,  and 
he  hunched  himself  more  despairingly. 

Odiam  had  triumphed  at  last.  Just  when  Reuben's 
unsettled  allegiance  should  have  been  given  entirely  to 
the  wife  who  had  borne  him  a  son,  his  farm  had  suddenly 
snatched  from  him  all  his  thought,  all  his  care,  his  love, 
and  his  anxiety,  all  that  should  have  been  hers.  It 
seemed  almost  as  if  some  malignant  spirit  had  con- 
trolled events,  and  for  Rose's  stroke  prepared  a  counter- 
stroke  that  should  effectually  drive  her  off  the  field.  The 
same  evening  that  Rose  had  gone  weeping  and  shuddering 
upstairs,  Reuben  had  interviewed  the  vet.  from  Rye 
and  heard  him  say  "  excema  epizootica."  This  had 
not  conveyed  much,  so  the  vet.  had  translated 
brutally : 

^Foot-and-mouth  disease." 

The  most  awful  of  a  farmer's  dooms  had  fallen  on 
Reuben.  The  new  Contagious  Diseases  of  Animals  Act 
made  it  more  than  probable  that  all  his  herd  would  have 
to  be  slaughtered.  Of  course,  there  would  be  a  certain 
amount  of  compensation,  but  government  compensation 
was  never  adequate,  and  with  the  multitudinous 
expenses  of  disinfecting  and  cleansing  he  was  likely  to 
sustain  some  crippling  losses,  just  when  every  penny 
was  vital  to  Odiam.  He  knew  of  a  man  who  had  been 
ruined  by  an  outbreak  of  pleuro -pneumonia,  of  another 
who  had  been  forced  by  swine-fever  to  sell  half  his  farm. 
Besides,  any  hope  of  a  deal  over  his  milk-round  was  now 
at  an  end.  His  dairy  business,  whether  in  town  or 
country,  was  destroyed,  and  his  reputation  would  be 


296  SUSSEX    GORSE 

probably  as  unjustly  damaged,  so  that  he  would  not  be 
able  to  adventure  on  that  road  for  years — perhaps  never 
again. 

Small  wonder,  then,  that  the  birth  of  a  son  brought 
no  joy.  The  child  was  born  to  an  inheritance  of  shame, 
the  heir  of  disaster.  Reuben's  head  bowed  nearly  to  his 
knees.  He  felt  old  and  broken.  He  began  to  see  that  it 
was  indeed  dreadfully  possible  that  he  had  thriven  all 
these  years,  conquered  waste  lands,  and  enriched  fat 
lands,  only  to  be  overthrown  at  last  by  a  mere  arbitrary 
piece  of  ill-luck.  How  the  disease  had  broken  out  he 
could  not  tell — he  had  bought  no  foreign  cattle,  indeed 
recently  he  had  bought  no  cattle  at  all.  He  could  not 
blame  himself  in  the  smallest  degree  ;  it  was  just  a 
malignant  capricious  thrust — as  if  fate  had  wanted  to 
show  him  that  what  had  taken  him  years  of  labour  and 
battle  and  sacrifice  to  build  up,  could  be  destroyed  in 
as  many  days. 

A  little  hope  sustained  him  till  the  Inspector's  visit — 
the  vet.  might  have  been  mistaken,  the  Inspector  might 
not  order  a  wholesale  destruction.  But  these  faint 
sparks  were  soon  extinguished.  The  loathed  epidemic 
had  undoubtedly  lifted  up  its  head  at  Odiam,  and 
Reuben's  entire  herd  of  Jersey,  Welsh,  and  Sussex  cattle 
was  doomed  to  slaughter. 

The  next  few  days  were  like  a  horrible  jumbled  night- 
mare, something  malignant,  preposterous,  outside 
experience.  Three  men  came  over  from  the  slaughter- 
house at  Rye,  and  plied  their  dreadful  work  till  evening. 
The  grey  and  dun-coloured  Jerseys  with  their  mild, 
protruding  eyes,  the  sturdy  Welsh  with  their  little 
lumpy  horns,  the  Sussex  all  coloured  like  a  home- 
county  landscape  in  reds  and  greys  and  browns — bowed 
their  meek  heads  under  the  ox-killer,  and  became  mere 
masses  of  meat  and  horn  and  hide.  Profitless  masses, 
too,  for  all  the  carcases  were  ordered  to  be  burned. 

The  nightmare  had  its  appropriate  ending.     Sixty 


ALMOST    UNDER  297 

dead  beasts  were  burned  in  lime.  Boarzell  became 
Hinnom — it  was  the  most  convenient  open  space,  so 
Reuben's  herd  was  burned  on  it.  From  a  dozen  different 
pyres  streamers  of  white  smoke  flew  along  the  wind,  and 
a  strange  terrible  smell  and  tickling  of  the  nostrils 
troubled  the  labourer  on  the  westward  lands  by  Flight- 
shot or  Moor's  Cottage. 

The  neighbourhood  sat  up  in  thrilled  dismay,  and 
watched  Odiam  pass  through  its  hour.  The  farm  was 
shut  off  from  civilisation  by  a  barrier  of  lime — along 
every  road  that  flanked  it,  outside  every  gate  that 
opened  on  it,  the  stuff  of  fiery  purification  was  spread. 
The  fields  with  their  ripening  oats  and  delicately  browned 
wheat,  the  orchards  where  apples  trailed  the  boughs  into 
the  grass,  the  snug  red  house,  and  red  and  brown  barns, 
the  black  turrets  of  the  oasts,  all  cried  "  Unclean  ! 
Unclean  !  " 

Odiam  was  a  leper.  None  might  leave  it  without 
rubbing  his  boots  in  lime,  no  beasts  could  be  driven 
beyond  its  hedges.  More,  the  curse  afflicted  the  guiltless 
— the  markets  at  Rye  and  Battle  were  forbidden,  the 
movements  of  cattle  were  restricted,  and  Coalbran  once 
indignantly  showed  Reuben  a  certificate  which  he 
found  he  must  have  ready  to  produce  every  time  he 
moved  his  single  cow  across  the  lane  from  the  hedge 
pasture  to  the  stream  fallow. 

Public  opinion  was  against  Backfield,  and  blamed  him 
surlily  for  the  local  inconvenience. 

"  Doan't  tell  me,"  said  Coalbran  in  the  bar,  "as  it 
wurn't  his  fault.  Foot-and-mouth  can't  just  drop  from 
heaven.  He  must  have  bought  some  furriners,  and 
they've  carried  it  wud  'em,  surelye." 

"  Serve  un  right,"  said  Ticehurst. 

"  Still,  I'm  sorry  for  him,"  said  Realf  of  Grandturzel — 
"  he's  the  only  man  hereabouts  wot's  really  made  a 
serious  business  of  farming,  and  it's  a  shame  he  should 
get  busted." 


298  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  He  aun't  busted  yet/'  said  Coalbran. 

"  But  you  mark  my  words,  he  will  be/'  said  Tice- 
hurst ;  "  anyways  I  shud  lik  him  to  be,  fur  he's  a  high- 
stomached  man,  and  only  deserves  to  be  put  down." 

"  He's  down  enough  now,  surelye  !  I  saw  him  only 
yesterday  by  the  Glotten  meadows,  and  there  was  a 
look  in  his  eye  as  I'll  never  forget." 

"  And  yit  he's  as  proud  as  the  Old  Un  himself.  I  met 
him  on  Thursday,  and  I  told  him  how  unaccountable 
sorry  we  all  wur  fur  him,  and  he  jest  spat." 

"  I  offered  to  help  him  wud  his  burning,"  said  Realf, 
"  and  he  said  as  he'd  see  me  and  my  lousy  farm  burnt 
first." 

"  He's  a  tedious  contradictious  old  feller — he  desarves 
all  he's  got.  Let's  git  up  a  subscription  fur  him — that 
ud  cut  him  to  the  heart,  and  he  wudn't  taake  it,  so  it  ud 
cost  us  naun,  nuther." 

The  rest  of  the  bar  seemed  to  think,  however,  that 
Reuben  might  take  the  money  out  of  spite,  so  Coal- 
bran's  charitable  suggestion  collapsed  for  lack  of 
support. 

Meantime,  so  fast  bound  in  the  iron  of  his  misery  that 
he  scarcely  felt  the  prick  of  tongues,  Reuben  lived 
through  the  final  stages  of  his  nightmare — those  final 
stages  of  shock  and  upheaval  when  the  fiery  torment  of 
the  dream  dies  down  into  the  ashes  of  waking.  He 
wandered  over  his  land  in  his  lime-caked  boots,  scarcely 
talking  to  those  at  work  on  it,  directing  with  mere 
mechanical  activity  the  labour  which  now  seemed  to 
him  nothing  but  the  writhings  of  a  crushed  beetle. 
Everyone  felt  a  little  afraid  of  him,  everyone  avoided 
him  as  much  as  possible — he  was  alone. 

His  nostrils  were  always  full  of  the  smart  of  lime,  and 
the  stench  of  those  horrible  furnaces  belching  away  on 
the  slopes  of  the  Moor.  Would  that  burning  never  be 
done  ?  For  days  the  yellowy  white  pennons  of  destruc- 
tion had  flown  on  Boarzell,  and  that  acrid  reek  polluted 


ALMOST    UNDER  299 

the  harvest  wind.  Boarzell  was  nothing  but  a  huge 
funeral  pyre,  a  smoking  hell.  .  .  .  "  And  the  smoke  of 
her  went  up  for  ever  and  ever." 

§17- 

An  atmosphere  of  gloom  lay  over  Odiam ;  Reuben 
brought  it  with  him  wherever  he  went,  and  fogged  the 
house  with  it  as  well  as  the  barns.  Even  Rose  felt  an 
aching  pity  for  her  strong  man,  something  quite  different 
from  the  easy  gushes  of  condolence  which  had  used  to  be 
all  she^could  muster  in  the  way  of  sympathy. 

But  Reuben  did  not  take  much  notice  of  Rose,  nor 
even  of  his  little  son.  Now  and  then  he  would  look  at 
them  together,  sigh  impatiently,  then  go  out  of  the  room. 

Sometimes  he  would  be  more  interested,  and,  in  a  fit 
of  reaction  from  his  proud  loneliness,  turn  to  her  as  of 
old  for  comfort.  But  those  were  the  bitterest  hours  of 
all,  for  in  them  he  would  glimpse  a  difference,  an  aloof- 
ness. She  had  been  much  quieter  since  the  birth  of  the 
second  boy,  she  had  not  recovered  her  health  so  rapidly, 
and  her  eyes  were  big  in  the  midst  of  bistred  rings.  She 
had  given  up  flirting  with  Handshut,  or  with  the  young 
men  from  Rye,  but  she  did  not  turn  from  them  to  her 
husband.  Though  he  could  see  she  was  sorry  for  him, 
he  felt — vaguely,  uncertainly,  yet  tormentingly — that 
she  was  not  all  his,  as  she  had  been  in  brighter  months. 
Sometimes  he  did  not  much  care — sometimes  a  dreadful 
passion  would  consume  him,  and  once  he  caught  her  to 
his  breast  and  bruised  her  in  his  arms,  crying — "  I  woan't 
lose  you — I  woan't  lose  you  too." 

Rose  could  not  read  his  mood  ;  one  day  she  would  feel 
her  husband  had  been  alienated  from  her  by  his  sorrow, 
another  that  his  need  of  her  was  greater  than  ever.  She 
herself  carried  a  heavy  heart,  and  in  her  mind  a  picture 
of  the  man  who  was  "  only  looking  in  at  the  window." 
She  seemed  to  see  him  standing  there,  with  the  moon 


300  SUSSEX    GORSE 

rising  over  his  shoulder,  while  from  behind  him  some- 
thing in  the  garden,  in  the  night,  called  .  .  .  and 
called. 

She  could  still  hear  that  call,  muted,  tender,  wild — 
the  voice  of  her  youth  and  of  her  love,  calling  to  her  out 
of  the  velvet  night,  bidding  her  leave  the  house  where 
the  hearth  was  piled  with  ashes,  and  feel  the  rain  and 
the  south  wind  on  her  lips.  There  was  no  escape  in 
sleep,  for  her  dreams  showed  her  that  window  framing 
a  sky  soft  and  dark  as  a  grape,  with  the  blackness  of  her 
lover's  bulk  against  it,  while  the  moon  rose  over  his 
shoulder,  red,  like  a  fiery  pan.  .  .  . 

She  felt  afraid,  and  did  not  know  where  to  turn.  She 
avoided  Handshut,  who  stood  remote ;  and  though 
her  husband  sometimes  overwhelmed  her  with  miserable 
hungry  love,  he  often  scarcely  seemed  to  notice  her  or 
her  children,  and  she  knew  that  she  counted  far  less  than 
his  farm.  He  was  terribly  harsh  with  her  now,  frowning 
by  the  hour  over  her  account-books,  forbidding  this  or 
that,  and  in  his  gloom  scarcely  noticing  her  submission. 

July  passed.  Odiam  was  no  longer  cut  off  from  the 
rest  of  the  world  by  lime.  Reuben  with  the  courage  of 
despair  began  to  organise  his  shattered  strength.  He 
discharged  Piper — now  that  his  cows  were  gone  he  could 
easily  do  with  a  hand  less.  He  sometimes  wondered 
why  he  had  not  discharged  Handshut,  but  the  answer 
was  always  ready — Handshut  was  far  the  better  work- 
man, and  Odiam  now  came  easily  before  Rose.  Not 
that  Reuben's  jealousies  had  left  him — they  still  per- 
sisted, though  in  a  different  form.  The  difference  lay  in 
the  fact  that  now  he  would  not  sacrifice  to  them  the 
smallest  scrap  of  Odiam's  welfare. 

He  sometimes  asked  himself  why  he  was  still  jealous. 
Rose  no  longer  gave  him  provocation,  she  was  much 
quieter  than  she  had  used  to  be,  and  seemed  busy  with 
her  children  and  straitened  house-keeping.  It  was  once 
more  a  case  of  instinct,  of  a  certain  vague  sensing  of  her 


ALMOST    UNDER  301 

aloofness.  Often  he  did  not  trouble  about  it,  but  some- 
times it  seared  through  him  like  a  hot  bar. 

One  evening  he  came  home,  particularly  depressed. 
He  had  just  finished  the  most  degrading  transaction  of 
his  life — the  raising  of  a  mortgage  on  the  Flightshot 
side  of  his  land.  It  was  horrible,  but  it  was  unavoidable. 
He  could  not  now  sell  his  milk-round,  and  yet  he 
absolutely  must  have  ready  money  if  he  was  to  stand 
up  against  circumstances.  The  mortgagee  was  a 
wealthy  Rye  butcher,  and  Reuben  had  hopes  that  the 
disgraceful  affair  might  be  kept  secret,  but  also  an 
uneasy  suspicion  that  it  was  at  that  moment  being 
discussed  in  every  public-house. 

He  went  straight  to  find  Rose,  for  that  mood  was  upon 
him.  The  due  of  loneliness  which  his  shame  demanded 
had  been  paid  during  the  drive  home  from  Rye,  and  now 
he  quite  simply  and  childishly  wanted  his  wife.  She 
was  in  the  kitchen,  stooping  over  some  child's  garment, 
the  little  frills  of  which  she  was  pleating  in  her  fingers. 
She  lifted  her  head  with  a  start  as  he  came  in,  and  he 
saw  that  her  face  was  patched  with  tearstains. 

"  Wot've  you  bin  crying  for  ?  "  he  asked  as  he  slid 
a  chair  close  to  hers.  He  wondered  if  the  humiliation  of 
Odiam  had  at  last  come  to  mean  to  her  a  little  of  what 
it  meant  to  him. 

"  I  haven't  been  crying." 

"  But  your  face  .  .  ." 

"  That's  the  heat." 

He  drew  back  from  her  a  little.  Why  should  she  lie  to 
him  about  her  tears  ? 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you  doan't  choose  to  tell  me  ...  But 
I've  eyes  in  my  head." 

She  seemed  anxious  to  propitiate  him. 

"  How  did  it  go  off  ?    Have  you  settled  with  Apps  ?  " 

He  nodded. 

"  It's  all  over  now — I've  touched  bottom." 

"  Nonsense,  Ben.     You  mustn't  say  that.    After  all 


302  SUSSEX    GORSE 

there's  nothing  extraordinary  about  a  mortgage — uncle 
had  one  for  years  on  a  bit  of  his  farm  at  Rowfant. 
Besides,  think  of  all  you've  got  left." 

He  laughed  bitterly.     "  I  aun't  got  much  left." 

Then  suddenly  he  turned  towards  her  as  she  sat  there 
by  him,  her  head  bowed  over  her  work — her  delicate, 
rather  impertinent  nose  outlined  against  the  firelight, 
her  cheek  and  neck  bewitched  with  running  shadows. 

"  But  I've  got  you." 

A  great  tenderness  transported  him,  a  great  melting. 
He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  made  as  if  to  pull 
her  close. 

She  drew  back  from  him  with  a  shudder. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment — the  next  she  yielded.  But 
he  had  seen  her  reluctance,  felt  the  shiver  of  repulsion 
go  through  her  limbs.  He  rose,  and  pushed  back  his 
chair. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said  in  a  low  thick  voice — "  I'm 
sorry  I  interrupted  your — crying." 

Then  he  went  out,  and  gave  Handshut  a  week's  notice. 

§18. 

Rose  was  intensely  relieved.  She  felt  that  at  last  and 
for  ever  the  tormenting  mystery  would  have  gone  from 
her  life.  Once  Handshut  was  away,  she  told  herself,  she 
would  slip  back  into  the  old  groove — a  little  soberer  and 
softer  perhaps,  but  definitely  free  of  that  Reality  which 
had  been  so  terribly  different  from  its  toy-counterfeit. 

Once  Handshut  was  gone,  her  heart  would  not  pursue 
him.  It  was  his  continual  presence  that  tormented. 
True,  he  never  sought  her  out,  or  persecuted  her,  or 
even  spoke  to  her  without  her  speaking  first — he  only 
looked  in  at  the  window.  .  .  .  But  a  woman  soon 
learns  what  it  means  to  have  a  man's  face  between  her 
and  the  simplicities  of  life  in  her  garden,  between  her 
and  the  divinities  of  the  stars  and  moon. 


ALMOST    UNDER  303 

Rose  did  not  find  in  her  love  a  sweetness  to  justify  the 
bitterness  of  its  circumstances.  The  fact  that  it  had 
been  awakened  by  a  man  who  was  her  inferior  in  the 
social-agricultural  scale,  who  could  give  her  nothing  of 
the  material  prosperity  she  so  greatly  prized,  instead  of 
inspiring  her  with  its  beauty,  merely  convinced  her  of 
its  folly.  She  saw  herself  a  woman  crazed,  obsessed, 
bewitched,  and  she  looked  eagerly  forward  to  the  day 
when  the  spell  should  be  removed  and  she  should  go 
back  chastened  to  the  common,  comfortable  things  of 
life. 

But  meantime  a  strange  restlessness  consumed  her, 
tinctured  by  a  horrible  boldness.  There  were  moments 
when  she  no  longer  was  afraid  of  Handshut,  when  she 
felt  herself  impelled  to  seek  him  out,  and  make  the  most 
of  the  short  time  they  had  together.  There  could  be  no 
danger,  for  he  was  going  so  soon  ...  so  few  more 
words,  so  few  more  glances.  .  .  .  Thus  her  mind  worked. 

She  was  generally  able  to  control  these  impulses,  but 
as  the  days  slipped  by  they  grew  too  strong  for  her 
untrained  resistance.  She  felt  that  she  must  make  the 
most  of  her  chances  because  they  were  so  limited — 
before  he  went  for  ever  she  must  have  one  more  memory 
of  his  voice,  his  look — his  touch  ...  oh,  no  !  her 
thoughts  had  carried  her  further  than  she  had  intended. 

She  found  herself  beginning  to  haunt  the  places  where 
she  would  be  likely  to  meet  him — the  edge  of  the  horse- 
pond  or  the  Glotten  brook,  the  door  of  the  huge, 
desolate  cow-stable,  where  six  cheap  Suffolks  empha- 
sised the  empty  stalls.  Reuben  did  not  seem  to  take 
any  notice  of  her,  he  had  relieved  his  feelings  by  dis- 
missing Handshut,  and  his  farm  had  swallowed  him  up 
again.  Rose  felt  defiant  and  forlorn.  Both  her  husband 
and  her  lover  seemed  to  avoid  her.  She  would  lean 
against  the  great  wooden  posts  of  the  door,  in  the 
listless  weary  attitude  of  a  woman's  despair. 

Then  two  days  before  the  end  he  came.    As  she  was 


304  SUSSEX    GORSE 

standing  by  the  barn  door  he  appeared  at  the  horse- 
pond,  and  crossed  over  to  her  at  once.  He  had  seen 
that  she  was  waiting  for  him — perhaps  he  had  seen  it 
on  half  a  dozen  other  occasions  when  she  had  not  seen 
him. 

Rose  could  calm  the  silly  jumps  of  her  heart  only  by 
telling  herself  that  this  was  quite  an  accidental  meeting. 
She  made  an  effort  to  be  commonplace. 

"  How's  Topsy's  foal  ?  " 

"  Doing  valiant.  Will  you  come  out  wud  me  to- 
morrow evenun  to  see  the  toll-burning  ?  " 

She  flushed  at  his  audacity. 

"  No  !—  how  can  I  ?  " 

"  You  can  quite  easy,  surely e.  Maaster's  going  to 
Cranbrook  Fair,  and  woan't  be  home  till  laate.  It's  the 
last  night,  remember." 

She  made  a  gallant  effort  to  be  the  old  Rose. 

"  What's  that  to  me  ? — you've  got  some  cheek  !  " 

"I'm  only  not  pretending  as  much  as  you  are.  Why 
shud  you  pretend  ?  Pretending  'ull  give  you  naun  sweet 
to  remember  when  I'm  gone." 

"  What  tolls  are  they  going  to  burn  ?  " 

"  The  geates  up  at  Leasan  and  Mockbeggar,  and  then 
over  the  marsh  to  Thornsdale.  It  'ud  be  a  shame  fur  you 
to  miss  it,  and  maaster  can't  taake  you,  since  he's  going 
to  Cranbrook." 

"  It  would  never  do  if  people  saw  us." 

"  Why  ?  Since  your  husband  can't  go,  wot's  more 
likely  than  he  shud  send  his  man  to  taake  you  ?  " 

Rose  shuddered.     "  I'm  not  coming." 

Handshut  turned  on  his  heel. 

§19- 

Already  the  turnpike  gates  had  disappeared  frem  the 
greater  part  of  Sussex,  but  they  still  lingered  in  the  Rye 
district,  for  various  reasons,  not  always  bearing  close 


ALMOST    UNDER  305 

inspection.  There  had  been  an  anti-toll  party  both 
before  and  after  the  famous  Scott's  Float  gate  had 
catastrophically  ended  Reuben's  political  career — and 
at  last  this  had  carried  the  day.  All  the  gates  were  to 
come  down  except  those  on  the  Military  Road,  and  the 
neighbourhood  was  to  celebrate  their  abolition  by  burn- 
ing them  in  tar. 

Reuben,  still  proud  and  sore,  stood  aloof  from  local 
jollities — besides,  he  had  heard  that  there  were  to  be 
some  cheap  milkers  for  sale  at  Cranbrook  Fair,  and  he 
was  anxious  to  add  a  little  to  his  dairy  stock.  Though  a 
large  milk-round  was  out  of  the  question,  the  compensa- 
tion money  he  had  received  from  Government  would 
allow  him  to  carry  on  a  small  dairy  business,  as  in 
humbler  days.  Of  course,  the  fact  that  he  had  lost  over 
sixty  cows  from  foot-and-mouth  disease  would  materi- 
ally damage  his  prospects  even  in  a  limited  sphere,  but 
a  farm  which  let  its  dairy  rot  was  doomed  to  failure, 
and  Reuben  was  still  untamed  by  experience,  and  hoped 
much  from  small  beginnings. 

So  early  that  morning  he  drove  off  in  his  gig,  accom- 
panied by  Pete,  who  had  a  good  eye  for  cattle,  and  had 
moreover  challenged  the  Canterbury  Kid  for  a  purse  of 
five  guineas.  Rose  watched  them  go,  and  waved  good- 
bye unnoticed  to  her  man,  as  he  leaned  forward  over 
the  reins,  thinking  only  of  how  much  he  could  spare  for 
a  yearling.  She  went  back  into  the  house,  and  stoned 
plums.  After  dinner  she  mended  the  children's  clothes, 
with  a  little  grimace  for  the  faded  ribbons  and  tattered 
frills  which  Reuben  would  not  allow  her  to  renew.  Then 
she  took  the  baby  and  little  David  for  an  airing  in  the 
orchard — Handshut,  raking  unrom  antic  ally  in  the 
midden,  saw  her  sitting,  a  splash  of  faded  violet  under 
an  apple  tree — then  she  bathed  them  and  put  them 
to  bed. 

All  this  was  a  propitiatory  offering  to  the  god  of  the 
hearth,  who,  however,  did  not  take  the  slightest  notice, 


306  SUSSEX    GORSE 

or  stay  as  he  so  easily  might  (so  the  scripture  saith) 
that  hunger  for  her  beloved  which  was  gnawing  at  the 
young  wife's  heart.  Instead,  it  seemed  to  grow  in  its 
devouring  pain — her  domesticity  stimulated  rather  than 
deadened  it,  and  by  the  time  her  day's  tasks  were  over 
it  had  eaten  up  her  poor  heart  like  a  dainty,  and  she  was 
its  unresisting  prey. 

After  the  children  were  in  bed  she  changed  her  dress, 
putting  on  the  best  she  had — a  washing  silk  with  pansies 
sewn  over  it,  one  of  her  wedding  gowns.  She  frowned 
at  it  as  she  had  frowned  at  the  babies'  dresses — it  was 
so  old-fashioned,  and  worn  in  places.  She  suddenly 
found  herself  wishing  that  she  loved  Reuben  so  much  as 
not  to  mind  wearing  old  clothes  for  his  sake.  For  the 
first  time  she  could  visualise  such  a  state  of  affairs,  for 
she  had  met  the  man  for  whom  she  would  have  worn 
rags.  If  only  that  man  had  been  Reuben,  her  lawful 
husband,  instead  of  another  !  "  But  111  be  true  to 
him  !  I'll  be  true  to  him  !  "  she  murmured,  and  found 
comfort  in  the  words  till  she  realised  that  it  was  the 
first  time  that  she  had  ever  glimpsed  the  possibility  of 
not  being  true. 

She  went  down  into  the  kitchen,  where  Caro  was 
baking  suet. 

"  Caro,  I'm  going  out  to  see  the  gates  burned.  I 
expect  I'll  be  back  before  Ben  is,  but  if  I'm  not,  tell 
him  where  I'm  gone." 

"  You  can't  go  by  yourself — he  wudn't  like  it." 

"  I'm  not  going  by  myself — Handshut's  taking  me." 

Caro's  suety  hands  fell  to  her  sides. 

"  Rose — you  know — how  can  you  ? — that's  worse 
than  alone,  surely e  !  " 

"  Nonsense  !  What's  more  natural  that  one  of  my 
servants  should  come  with  me,  since  my  husband 
can't  ?  " 

"  Your  servant.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  my  servant." 


ALMOST    UNDER  307 

Caro,  regardless  of  the  suet  on  her  hands,  hid  her 
face  in  them. 

"  Oh,  Rose,  I  can't  tell  him— I  daren't.  Why,  he 
turned  away  Handshut  because  of  you." 

"  He  did  not,  miss — you're  impudent !  " 

"  Well,  why  shud  faather  git  shut  of  the  best  drover 
he  ever  had  on  his  farm,  if  it  aun't " 

"  Be  quiet !  I  won't  hear  such  stuff.  I'm  not  going 
to  be  a  prisoner,  and  miss  my  fun  just  because  you  and 
Ben  are  jealous  fools." 

"  But  I  daren't  tell  him  where  you've  agone." 

"  I  dare  say  you  won't  have  to — I'm  not  staying  out 
all  night." 

She  laughed  one  of  her  coarse  screaming  laughs,  with 
the  additional  drawback  of  mirthlessness ;  then  she 
went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Caro  sobbing  into  suety 
palms. 

Outside  in  the  yard,  Handshut  stood  by  the  pump, 
apparently  absorbed  in  studying  the  first  lights  of 
Triangulum  as  they  kindled  one  by  one  in  the  darkening 
sky. 

Rose  pattered  up  to  him  in  the  shabby  white  kid 
shoes  that  had  been  so  trim  and  smart  five  years 
ago. 

"  I've  changed  my  mind." 

"  Then  you  aun't  coming." 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"  Then  you  haven't  changed  it." 

§20. 

The  roads  outside  Rye  were  dark  with  people.  A 
procession  was  forming  up  at  Rye  Foreign,  and  another 
at  the  foot  of  Cadborough  Hill.  Outside  the  railway 
station  a  massed  band  played  something  rather  like  the 
Marseillaise,  while  the  grass-grown,  brine-smelling 
streets  were  spotted  with  stragglers,  hurrying  up  from 


808  SUSSEX    GORSE 

all  quarters,  some  carrying  torches  that  flung  shifting 
gleams  on  windows  and  gable-ends. 

Immense  barrels  of  tar  had  been  loaded  on  four 
waggons,  to  which  four  of  the  most  prosperous  farmers 
of  the  district  had  harnessed  teams.  Odiam  was  of 
course  not  represented,  nor  was  Grandturzel,  but  three 
bell-ringing  sorrels  had  come  all  the  way  from  Kitchen- 
h©ur,  while  the  marsh  farms  of  Leasan,  the  Loose,  and 
Becket's  House,  accounted  for  the  rest. 

The  crowd  surged  round  the  waggons,  cheered,  joked, 
sang.  The  whole  of  Rye  was  there — prosperous  trades- 
men from  the  High  Street  or  Station  Road,  innkeepers, 
farmers,  shop-assistants,  chains  of  fishermen  in  high 
boots,  jerseys,  and  gold  ear-rings,  coast-guards  from  the 
Camber,  and  one  or  two  scared-looking  women  clinging 
to  stalwart  arms. 

Rose  shrank  close  to  Handshut,  though  she  did  not 
take  his  arm.  Sometimes  the  crowd  would  fling  them 
together,  so  that  they  were  close  as  in  an  embrace,  at 
others  they  would  stand  almost  apart,  linked  only  by 
sidelong  glances.  The  flare  of  a  torch  would  suddenly 
slide  over  Handshut's  face,  showing  her  its  dark  gipsy 
profile,  and  she  would  turn  away  her  eyes  as  from 
something  too  bright  to  bear. 

Every  now  and  then  the  crowd  would  start  singing 
inanely : 

"  Soles,  plaice,  and  dabs, 
Rate,  skate,  and  crabs. 

God  save  the  Queen  !  " 

It  was  like  a  muddled  dream — people  seemed  to  have 
no  reason  for  what  they  did  or  shouted ;  they  just 
ebbed  and  flowed,  jostled  and  jambed,  ran  hither  and 
thither,  sang  and  laughed  and  swore.  Rose  looked  round 
her  to  see  if  she  could  recognise  anyone  ;  now  and  then 
a  face  glowed  on  her  in  the  torch-light,  then  died  away, 
once  she  thought  she  saw  the  back  of  a  tradesman's 
daughter  whom  she  knew— but  her  chief  feeling  was  of 


ALMOST    UNDER  309 

an  utter  isolation  with  her  loved  one,  as  if  he  and  she 
stood  alone  on  some  sea-pounded  island  against  which 
the  tides  of  the  world  roared  in  vain. 

At  last  the  crowd  began  to  move.  The  band  had 
crushed  through  to  the  front  of  it,  and  was  braying  Rule 
Britannia  up  Playden  Hill ;  then  came  the  waggons,  then 
the  stout  champions  of  freedom,  singing  at  the  pitch  of 
their  lungs : 

"  Soles,  plaice,  and  dabs, 
Rate,  skate,  and  crabs. 

God  save  the  Queen  !  " 

The  stars  winked  on  the  black  zenith,  while  troubled 
winds  sped  and  throbbed  over  the  fields  that  huddled  in 
mystery  and  silence  on  either  side  of  the  road — where 
noise  and  skirmish  and  darting  lights,  with  the  odours 
of  warm  human  bodies,  and  the  thudding  and  scrabbling 
of  a  thousand  feet,  proclaimed  the  People's  holiday. 

They  flowed  through  Playden  like  a  torrent  through 
an  open  sluice,  sweeping  up  and  carrying  on  all  sorts  of 
flotsam — villagers  from  cottage  doors,  ploughboys  from 
the  farms  down  by  the  Military  Canal,  gipsies  from  Iden 
Wood  ...  a  mixed  multitude,  which  the  central  mass 
absorbed,  till  all  was  one  steaming  and  shouting 
blackness. 

The  first  gate  was  at  Mockbeggar,  where  the  road  to 
Iden  joins  that  which  crosses  the  Marsh  by  Corkwood 
and  Baron's  Grange.  In  a  minute  it  was  off  its  hinges, 
and  swealing  in  tar,  while  lusty  arms  pulled  twigs, 
branches,  even  whole  bushes  out  of  the  hedges  to  build 
its  pyre. 

Rose  shrank  close  to  Handshut,  so  close  that  the 
clover  scents  of  her  laces  were  drowned  in  the  smell  of 
the  cowhouse  that  came  from  his  clothes.  She  found 
herself  liking  it,  drinking  in  that  soft,  mixed,  milky  odour 
.  .  .  till  a  cloud  of  stifling  tar-smoke  swept  suddenly 
over  them,  and  she  reeled  against  him  suffocating,  while 
all  round  them  people  choked  and  gasped  and  sneezed. 


310  SUSSEX    GORSE 

The  fire  was  lighted,  a  great  orimson  tongue  screamed 
up  in  front  of  two  motionless  poplars,  leaped  as  high  as 
their  tops,  then  spread  fan-shaped,  roaring.  Men  and 
women  joined  hands  and  danced  round  the  blaze — in  the 
distance,  above  the  surging  pack  of  heads,  Rose  could 
see  them  jumping  and  capering,  with  snatches  of  song 
that  became  screams  every  minute. 

The  fire  roared  like  a  storm,  and  the  wood  crackled 
with  sudden  yelping  reports.  The  dancing  girls*  hats 
flew  off,  their  hair  streamed  wide,  their  skirts  belled  and 
swirled  .  .  .  there  was  laughter  and  obscene  remarks 
from  the  onlookers.  Many  from  the  rear  pressed 
forward  to  join  the  dance,  and  those  who  were  trampled 
on  screamed  or  cursed,  while  one  or  two  women  fainted. 
Rose  felt  as  if  she  would  faint  in  the  heat  and  reek  of  it 
all.  She  leaned  heavily  against  Handshut  and  closed 
her  eyes  .  .  .  then  she  realised  that  his  arm  was  round 
her.  He  held  her  against  him,  supporting  her,  while 
either  she  heard  or  thought  she  h^ard  him  say — "  Doan't 
be  scared,  liddle  Rose — I'm  wud  you.  I  woan't  let 
you  fall." 

She  opened  her  eyes.  The  people  were  moving.  The 
Mockbeggar  gate  had  been  accounted  for,  and  they 
rolled  on  towards  Thornsdale.  The  jamb  was  not  so 
alarming,  for  a  good  many  revellers  had  been  left 
behind,  dancing  round  the  remains  of  the  bonfire, 
crowding  into  the  public-house,  or  scattering  in  couples 
over  the  fields. 

But  though  the  jostling  was  no  longer  dangerous, 
Handshut  still  kept  his  arm  about  Rose,  and  held  her 
close  to  his  side.  Now  and  then  she  made  a  feeble  effort 
as  if  to  free  herself,  but  he  held  her  fast,  and  she  never 
put  out  her  fuil  strength.  They  walked  as  if  in  a  dream, 
they  two  together,  not  speaking  to  anyone,  not  speaking 
to  each  other.  Rose  saw  as  if  in  a  dream  the  Sign  of 
Virgo  hanging  above  Stone.  The  dipping  of  the  lane 
showed  the  Kentish  marshes  down  in  the  valley,  with 


ALMOST    UNDER  311 

the  hills  of  Kent  beyond  them,  twinkling  with  lights. 
The  band  lifted  the  strains  of  Hearts  of  Oak  and 
Cheer,  Boys,  Cheer  above  the  thud  of  marching  feet,  or 
occasionally  drifted  into  sentiment  with  Love's 
Pilgrim — while  every  now  and  then,  regardless  of  what 
was  being  played,  two  hundred  throats  would  bray : 

"  Soles,  plaice,  and  dabs, 
Rate,  skate,  and  crabs. 

God  save  the  Queen  !  " 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  when  they  came  to  Thorns- 
dale,  down  on  the  Rother  levels ;  the  moon  had  risen 
and  the  marsh  was  smeethed  in  white.  The  air  was 
thick  with  a  strong-scented  miasma,  and  beside  the 
dykes  long  lines  of  willows  faded  into  the  mist.  Here 
another  orgy  was  started,  in  grotesque  contrast  with 
the  pallid  sleep  of  water.  The  gate  that  barred  the  Kent 
road  was  torn  down,  the  bonfire  prepared,  the  dance 
begun. 

The  mists  became  patched  with  leaping  shadows,  and 
a  dull  crimson  wove  itself  into  the  prevailing  whiteness. 
Flaming  twigs  and  sparks  hissed  into  the  dykes,  rolls  of 
acrid  tar-smoke  spread  like  a  pall  over  the  river  and  the 
Highnock  Sewer,  under  which  their  waters  were  spotted 
with  fire.  The  ground  was  soon  pulped  and  poached 
with  the  jigging  feet,  and  mud  and  water  spurted  into 
the  dancers'  faces. 

It  was  all  rather  ugly  and  ridiculous,  and  as  before  at 
Mockbeggar,  the  crowd  began  to  straggle.  This  time 
there  was  no  public-house  to  swallow  up  strays,  but  the 
marsh  spread  far  and  wide,  a  Land  of  Promise  for 
lovers,  who  began  to  slink  off  two  by  two  into  the  mists. 
Some  who  were  not  lovers  formed  themselves  into 
noisy  groups,  and  bumped  about  the  lanes — waking  the 
farmers'  wives  from  Bosney  to  Marsh  Quarter. 

Rose  felt  Handshut's  arm  clinging  more  tenderly 
about  her,  and  she  knew  that  he  wanted  to  lead  her 


312  SUSSEX    GORSE 

away  from  the  noise  and  glare,  to  the  coolness  and 
loneliness  of  the  waterside.  She  wanted  to  go — her 
head  ached,  her  nostrils  tingled,  and  her  eyes  were  sore 
with  the  fumes  of  tar,  her  ears  wearied  with  the  din. 

"  Let's  go  home,"  she  said  faintly — "  it's  getting 
late/' 

"  We  can  go  back  by  Corkwood  across  the  marshes. 
It'll  be  quicker,  and  we  shan't  have  no  crowd  spanneling 
round." 

They  elbowed  their  way  into  the  open,  and  soon  the 
noise  had  died  into  a  subdued  roar,  not  so  loud  as  the 
sigh  of  the  reeds,  while  the  bonfire  showed  only  as  a 
crimson  stain  on  the  eastward  piling  fogs. 

In  time  the  contrast  of  silence  grew  quite  painful.  It 
ached.  Only  the  sough  of  the  wind  in  the  reeds  troubled 
it — the  feet  of  Rose  and  Handshut  were  noiseless  on  the 
grass,  they  breathed  inaudibly,  only  the  breath  of  the 
watching  night  was  heard. 

They  skirted  the  Corkwood  dyke,  from  which  rose  the 
stupefying,  sodden,  almost  flavorous,  smell  of  dying 
reeds — a  waterfowl  suddenly  croaked  among  them,  and 
another  answered  her  with  a  wail  from  beyond  Ethnam. 
The  willows  were  shimmering  silver  dreams,  bathed  in  the 
light  of  the  moon  which  hung  above  the  Fivewatering 
and  had  washed  nearly  all  the  stars  out  of  the  sky — only 
Sirius  hung  like  a  dim  lamp  over  Great  Knell,  while 
Lyra  was  faint  above  Reedbed  in  the  north. 

Rose  walked  half  leaning  against  Handshut.  She  felt 
a  very  little  feeble  thing  in  the  power  of  that  great 
amorous  night.  The  warm  breath  of  the  wind  in  her 
hair,  the  caress  of  moonlight  on  her  eyes,  the  throbbing, 
miasmic,  night-sweet  scents  of  water  and  grass,  the 
hush,  the  great  sleep  ...  all  tore  at  her  heart,  all 
weakened  her  with  their  huge  soft  strength,  all  crushed 
with  their  languors  the  poor  resistance  of  her  will. 

The  tears  began  to  roll  down  her  cheeks,  they  shone  on 
her  face  in  the  moonlight — they  fell  quite  fast  as  she 


ALMOST    UNDER  313 

walked  on  gripped  against  her  lover's  heart.  She  was 
leaning  more  and  more  heavily  against  him,  for  her 
strength  was  ebbing  fast — oh,  if  he  would  only  speak  ! — 
she  could  not  walk  much  further,  and  yet  she  dared  not 
rest  beside  him  on  that  haunted  ground. 

At  last  they  came  to  where  the  high  land  rose  out  of 
the  levels  like  a  shore  out  of  the  sea,  with  a  lick  of  road 
on  it,  winding  up  to  Peasmarsh.  It  was  here  that  Rose's 
uncertain  strength  failed  her,  she  lurched  against 
Handshut,  and  still  encircled  by  his  arms  slid  to  the 
grass. 

They  were  in  a  huge  meadow,  sloping  upwards  to 
mysterious,  night-wrapped  hedges.  The  moonlight  still 
trembled  over  the  marsh,  kindling  sudden  streaks  of 
water,  steeping  fogs,  silvering  pollards  and  reeds.  One 
could  distinctly  see  the  little  houses  on  the  Kent  side  of 
the  Rother,  Ethnam,  and  Lossenham,  and  Lambstand, 
some  with  lights  blinking  from  them,  others  just  black 
patches  on  the  moon-grey  country.  Rose  looked  out 
towards  them,  and  tried  to  picture  in  each  a  hearth 
beside  which  a  husband  and  wife  sat  united  .  .  .  then 
suddenly  they  were  blotted  out,  as  Handshut's  face 
loomed  dark  between  her  and  them,  and  his  lips  slowly 
fastened  on  her  own. 

For  a  moment  she  yielded  to  the  kiss,  then  suddenly 
tore  herself  away. 

"  Rose  .  .  ." 

"  Let  me  go— I  can't." 

"  Rose,  why  shud  you  pretend  ?  You  doan't  love  the 
maaster,  and  you  do  love  me.  Why  shudn't  we  be 
happy  together  ?  " 

"  We— I  can't." 

"  Why  ? — I  love  you,  and  you  love  me.  Come  away 
wud  me — you  shan't  have  a  hard  life " 

"—It's  not  that." 

"  Wot  is  it  then  ?  " 

"  It's— oh,  I  can't— I'm  his  wife." 


314  SUSSEX    GORSE 

She  pushed  him  from  her  as  he  tried  to  take  her  in  his 
arms  again,  and  stumbled  to  her  feet. 

"  It's  late — I — I  must  go  home." 

"  Rose,  you  queer  me." 

He  had  risen  too,  and  stood  before  her  in  mingled  pain 
and  surprise.  He  thought  her  resistance  mere  coyness, 
and  suddenly  flung  his  arms  round  her  as  she  stood. 

She  began  to  cry. 

"  No,  no — don't  be  so  cruel !  Let  me  go  ! — I'm  his 
wife." 

§21. 

The  walk  home  was  dreary,  for  Rose  and  Handshut 
misunderstood  each  other,  and  yet  loved  each  other 
too.  She  was  silent,  almost  shamefaced,  and  he  was  a 
little  disgusted  with  her — he  felt  that  she  had  misled 
him,  and  in  his  soreness  added  "  willingly." 

They  scarcely  spoke,  and  the  night  spread  round 
them  its  web  of  pondering  silence.  Aldebaran  guttered 
above  Kent,  and  the  blurred  patch  of  the  Pleiades  hung 
over  the  curded  fogs  that  hid  the  Rother.  There  was 
no  wind,  but  every  now  and  then  the  grass  rippled  and 
the  leaves  fluttered,  while  a  low  hissing  sound  went 
through  the  trees.  Sometimes  from  the  distance  came 
the  shouts  of  some  revellers  still  at  large,  echoing 
weirdly  over  the  moon -steeped  fields,  and  divinely 
purged  by  space  and  night. 

Sobs  were  still  thick  in  Rose's  throat,  when  they  came 
to  Handshut's  cottage,  a  little  tumble-down  place, 
shaped  like  a  rabbit's  head.  She  stopped. 

"  Don't  come  any  further." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  better  if  I  wasn't  seen  with  you." 

He  looked  at  her  white  face. 

"  You're  frighted." 

"  No." 

"  Yes — and  I'm  coming  wud  you,  surelye," 


ALMOST    UNDER  315 

"  I  should  be  frightened  if  you  came." 

She  managed  to  persuade  him  to  go  his  different 
way — though  the  actual  moment  of  their  parting  was 
always  a  blur  in  her  memory.  Afterwards  she  could 
not  remember  if  they  had  kissed,  touched  hands,  or 
parted  without  a  word.  Her  throat  was  still  full  of 
sobs  when  she  came  to  Odiam  ;  she  was  panting,  too, 
for  she  had  run  all  the  way — she  did  not  know  why. 

The  house  was  swimming  in  the  light  of  the  western 
moon.  Its  strange  curves  and  bulges,  its  kiln-shaped 
ends,  and  great  waving  sprawl  of  roof  all  shone  in  a 
white  glassy  brilliance,  which  was  somehow  akin  to 
peace.  There  was  a  soft  flutter  of  wind  in  the  orchard 
and  in  the  sentinel  poplars,  while  now  and  then  came 
that  distant  night-purged  scrap  of  song  : 

"  Soles,  plaice,  and  dabs, 
Rate,  skate,  and  crabs. 

God  save  the  Queen  !  " 

Rose  wondered  uneasily  what  time  it  was.  Surely 
it  could  not  be  very  late,  and  yet  the  house  was  shut 
up  and  the  windows  dark. 

She  gently  rattled  the  door-handle.  There  was  no 
denying  it — the  house  was  locked  up.  It  must  be  later 
than  she  thought— that  walk  on  the  Rother  levels  must 
have  been  longer  than  it  had  seemed  to  her  thirsty  love. 
A  thrill  of  fear  went  through  her.  She  hoped  Reuben 
would  not  be  angry.  She  was  his  dutiful  wife. 

She  stood  hesitating  on  the  doorstep.  Should  she 
knock  ?  Then  a  terrible  thought  struck  her.  Reuben 
must  have  meant  to  lock  her  out.  Otherwise  he  would 
have  sat  up  for  her,  however  late  she  had  been.  She 
started  trembling  all  over,  and  felt  her  skin  grow 
damp. 

She  began  to  knock,  first  softly,  then  more  desper- 
ately. She  must  get  in.  Nothing  was  to  be  heard  except 
her  own  despairing  din — the  house  seemed  plunged  in 


316  SUSSEX    GORSE 

sleep.  Rose's  fear  grew,  spread  black  bat's  wings,  and 
darkened  all  her  thoughts — for  she  knew  that  someone 
must  have  heard  her,  she  could  not  make  all  this  racket 
quite  unheard. 

What  could  she  do  ?  Caro  slept  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  it  struck  her  that  she  had  better  go  round, 
and  throw  up  some  earth  at  her  window.  Perhaps 
Caro  would  let  her  in.  She  stepped  back  from  the  door, 
and  was  just  turning  the  corner  of  the  house  when  a 
window  suddenly  shot  open  above  her,  and  Reuben's 
tousled  head  looked  out. 

"  There's  no  use  your  trying  to  git  in." 

Rose  gave  a  faint  scream.  In  the  moonlight  her 
husband's  face  looked  distorted,  while  his  voice  came 
thick  and  unnatural. 

"  Ben  !  " 

"  Go  away.  Go  away  to  where  you've  come  from.  I 
shan't  let  you  in." 

"  You  can't  keep  me  out  here.  It  isn't  my  fault  I'm 
late — and  I'm  not  so  very  late,  either." 

"  It's  one  o'clock  o'  the  marnun." 

She  felt  her  heart  grow  sick.  If  she  had  been  happy 
for  four  hours,  why,  in  God's  name,  had  they  not  passed 
like  four  hours  instead  of  like  four  minutes  ? 

"  Ben,  I  swear  I  didn't  know.  I  was  up  to  no  harm, 
I  promise  you.  Please,  please — oh  please  let  me  in  !  " 

"  Not  I — at  one  o'clock  o'  the  marnun — after  you've 
bin  all  night  wud  a " 

"  Ben,  I  swear  I'm  your  true  wife." 

She  fell  against  the  wall,  and  her  hair,  disordered  by 
embraces,  suddenly  streamed  over  her  shoulders.  The 
sight  of  it  made  Reuben  wild. 

"  Git  off — before  I  taake  my  gun  and  shoot  you." 

"  Oh,  Ben  !  .  .  ." 

11  Hoald  your  false  tongue.  You're  no  wife  o'  mine 
from  this  day  forrard.  I  woan't  be  cuckolded  in  my 
own  house." 


ALMOST    UNDER  317 

His  face  was  swollen,  his  eyes  rolled — he  looked 
almost  as  if  he  had  been  drinking. 

"  Ben,  don't  drive  me  away.  I've  been  true  to  you, 
indeed  I  have,  and  Handshut's  going  to-morrow.  Let 
me  in — please  let  me  in.  I  swear  I've  been  true." 

"  I  want  none  o'  your  lying  swears — at  one  o'clock  o' 
the  marnun.  Go  back  to  the  man  you've  come  from — 
he'll  believe  you  easier  nor  I." 

"  Ben,  I'm  your  wife." 

"  I  tell  you,  you're  no  wife  of  mine.  I'm  shut  of 
you — you  false,  fair,  lying,  scarlet  woman.  You  needn't 
cry  and  weep,  nuther — none  'ull  say  as  Ben  Backfield 
wur  a  soft  man  fur  woman's  tears." 

He  shut  the  window  with  a  slam.  For  some  moments 
Rose  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  her  sobs  shaking 
her.  Then,  still  sobbing,  she  turned  and  walked  away. 

She  walked  slowly  down  the  drive  till  she  came  to 
the  little  path  that  led  across  the  fields  to  Handshut's 
cottage.  A  light  gleamed  from  the  window,  and  she 
crept  towards  it  through  tall  moon-smudged  grass- 
while  from  the  distance  came  for  the  last  time  : 

"  Soles,  plaice,  and  dabs, 
Rate,  skate,  and  crabs. 

God  save  the  Queen  I  " 

§22. 

A  glassy  yellow  broke  into  the  sky  like  a  curse.  It 
shone  on  Reuben's  eyes,  and  he  opened  them.  They 
were  pink  and  puffed  round  the  rims,  and  the  whites 
were  shot  with  little  blood-vessels.  His  cheeks  were 
yellow,  and  round  his  mouth  was  an  odd  greyish  tinge. 
He  had  lain  dressed  on  his  bed,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  that  he  had  slept.  But  the  sleep  had  brought  no 
refreshment — there  was  a  bad  taste  in  his  mouth,  and 
his  tongue  felt  rough  and  thick. 

He  sat  up  on  the  tumbled  bed  and  looked  round  him. 


318  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Rose's  nightgown  was  folded  on  her  pillow,  and  over 
a  chair  lay  a  pair  of  the  thin  useless  stockings  he  had 
often  scolded  her  for  wearing.  A  drawer  was  open, 
and  from  it  came  the  soft  perfume  that  adhered  to 
everything  she  put  on.  He  suddenly  sprang  out  of  bed 
and  shut  it  with  a  kick. 

"  Durn  her !  "  he  said,  and  then  two  sobs  tore  their 
way  painfully  up  his  throat,  shaking  his  whole  body. 

An  hour  later  he  went  down.  He  had  washed  and 
tidied  himself,  none  the  less  he  disconcerted  the  house- 
hold. Caro  had  lain  awake  all  night,  partly  from  misery, 
partly  because  of  the  baby,  which  she  had  been  obliged 
to  take  charge  of  in  the  mother's  absence.  She  had 
brought  it  down  into  the  kitchen  with  her,  and  it  had 
lain  kicking  in  its  cradle  while  she  prepared  the  break- 
fast. She  was  worn  out  already  after  her  sleepless  night, 
and  could  not  prevent  the  tears  from  trickling  down  her 
face  as  she  cut  bread  for  the  meal. 

"  Stop  that !  "  said  Reuben  roughly. 

Except  for  this,  he  did  not  speak — nor  after  a  few 
attempts  on  the  former's  part  did  Pete  and  Caro.  They 
sat  and  gulped  down  their  food  in  silence.  Even  Harry 
seemed  to  realise  the  general  unrest.  He  would  not  sit 
at  table,  but  wandered  aimlessly  up  and  down  the  room, 
murmuring,  as  was  now  his  habit  in  times  of  domestic 
upheaval,  "  Another  wedding — deary  me !  We're 
always  having  weddings  in  this  house." 

Then  the  baby  began  to  howl  because  it  was  hungry. 
Rose  had  nursed  it  herself,  and  its  wants  had  not 
occurred  to  the  unhappy  Caro  or  her  father.  There  was 
delay  and  confusion  while  a  bottle  was  fetched  and  milk 
prepared,  and  then — to  crown  all — cow's  milk  upset 
it,  and  it  was  sick.  But  Reuben  escaped  this  final 
tragedy — he  had  left  the  room  after  a  few  mouthfuls, 
and  gone  to  Handshut's  cottage. 

He  could  not  restrain  himself  any  longer.  He  must 
see  Rose,  and  vent /on  her  all  the  miserable  rage  with 


ALMOST    UNDER  319 

which  his  heart  was  seething.  He  longed  to  strike  her 
— he  longed  to  beat  her,  for  the  wanton  that  she  was. 
And  he  longed  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms  and  weep  on  her 
breast  and  caress  her,  for  the  woman  that  she  was. 

But  the  cottage  was  shut.  With  its  red-rotting  roof 
between  two  tall  chimneys  it  looked  exactly  like  a 
rabbit's  head  between  its  ears  ;  the  windows  were 
blind,  though  it  was  past  seven  o'clock,  and  though 
Reuben  knocked  at  the  door  loudly,  there  was  no  one 
to  be  seen.  He  prowled  once  or  twice  round  the  house, 
fumbling  handles  and  window-latches,  but  there  was 
no  way  of  getting  in.  He  listened,  but  he  could  not 
hear  a  sound.  He  pictured  Rose  and  Handshut  in  each 
other's  arms,  laughing  at  him  in  his  wretchedness  and 
their  bliss — and  all  the  time  he  wanted  the  woman's 
blood  more  than  the  man's. 

At  last  he  wandered  desperately  away,  treading  the 
furrows  of  his  new  ground  on  BoarzeD,  reckless  that  he 
trod  the  young  seed  harrowed  into  them.  In  that  black 
moment  even  his  winter  crops  were  nothing  to  him. 
He  saw,  thought  of,  realised  only  one  thing — and  that 
was  Rose,  the  false,  the  gay,  the  wanton,  and  the  beauti- 
ful— oh  the  beautiful ! — laughing  at  him  from  another 
man's  arms.  He  could  see  her  laughing,  see  just  how 
her  lips  parted,  just  how  her  teeth  shone — those  little 
teeth,  so  regular  except  for  the  pointed  canines — just 
how  the  dimples  came  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
those  dear  little  hollows  which  he  had  dug  with  his 
kisses.  .  .  . 

He  ground  his  heel  into  the  soft  harrowed  earth,  and 
it  cast  up  its  smell  into  his  nostrils  unheeded.  But  the 
day  of  Boarzell  was  coming — its  rival  had  been  cleared 
out  of  the  field,  and  the  great  hump  with  its  knob  of 
firs  seemed  to  be  lying  in  wait,  till  the  man  had  pulled 
himself  out  of  the  pit  of  a  false  woman's  love  and  given 
himself  back  to  it,  the  strong,  the  faithful  enemy. 

About  an  hour  later  Reuben  was  down  again  at 


320  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Handshut's  cottage,  but  this  time  a  change  had  worked 
itself.  The  door  hung  wide  open — and  the  place  was 
empty.  He  went  through  the  two  miserable  little  rooms, 
but  there  was  no  one,  and  nowhere  for  anybody  to  hide. 
The  remains  of  a  meal  of  bread  and  tea  were  on  the  table, 
and  a  fire  of  sticks  was  dying  on  the  hearth.  The  lovers 
had  flown — to  laugh  at  him  from  a  safe  distance. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day  he  prowled  aimlessly  about  his 
land.  His  men  were  afraid,  for  it  was  the  first  time  they 
had  seen  him  spend  a  day  without  work.  He  touched 
neither  spade  nor  pitchfork,  he  gave  no  orders,  just 
wandered  restlessly  about  the  fields  and  barns.  He  ate 
no  supper,  but  locked  himself  into  his  room,  while  the 
baby's  thin  wail  rose  through  the  beams  of  the  kitchen 
ceiling,  and  little  David  cried  fractiously  for  "  mother/' 

The  next  day  Caro,  haggard  after  another  night  made 
sleepless  by  her  charges,  knocked  at  his  door.  He  had 
not  come  down  to  breakfast,  and  at  eight  o'clock  the 
postman  had  brought  a  letter, 

"  It's  from  Rose,"  said  Caro  timidly. 

"  To  me  ?  " 

"  No,  to  me." 

"  Read  it." 

Caro  read  it.  Rose  was  in  London,  but  left  that  day 
for  Liverpool.  Handshut  had  saved  a  little  money,  and 
they  were  going  to  Canada.  "  I  don't  ask  Ben  to  forgive 
me,  for  I  know  he  never  will." 

"  She's  right  there,"  said  Reuben  grimly. 

Caro  stood  before  him,  creasing  the  letter  nervously. 
Her  father's  wrath  broke  upon  her,  for  want  of  his 
proper  victim. 

"  Git  out,  can't  yer — wot  are  you  dawdling  here  for  ? 
You  women  are  all  the  same — you'd  be  as  bad  as  her  if 
you  cud  only  git  a  man." 

Caro  shrank  from  the  jibe  as  if  from  a  blow,  and 
Reuben  laughed  brutally.  He  had  made  one  woman 
suffer  anyway. 


ALMOST    UNDER  321 


§23. 

Of  course  the  neighbourhood  gloated  ;  and  the  rustic 
convention  was  set  aside  in  Rose's  favour,  and  all  the 
shame  of  her  elopement  heaped  on  Reuben. 

"  No  waonder  as  she  cudn't  stick  to  him — hard, 
queer  chap  as  he  be. " 

"  And  thirty  year  older  nor  she,  besides." 

"  Young  Handshut  wur  a  praaper  lad,  and  valiant. 
I  aun't  surprised  as  she'd  rather  have  un  wudout  a 
penny  than  old  Ben  wud  all  his  gold." 

"  And  he  aun't  got  much  o'  that  now,  nuther.  They 
say  as  he'll  be  bust  by  next  fall." 

Heads  were  shaken  in  triumphant  commiseration, 
and  the  stones  which  according  to  all  decent  tradition 
should  have  been  flung  at  Rose,  hurtled  round  her 
husband  instead. 

Far  away  at  Cheat  Land,  Alice  Jury  watched  them 
fall — Alice  Jury  five  years  older  than  when  she  had 
struggled  with  Boarzell  for  Reuben  before  he  married 
Rose.  Her  parents  thought  he  had  treated  her  badly, 
even  though  they  did  not  know  of  the  evening  when  she 
had  humbled  herself  to  plead  for  her  happiness  and  his. 
She  remembered  that  moment  uneasily — it  hurt  her 
pride.  But  she  could  not  regret  having  used  her  most 
desperate  effort  to  win  him,  and  she  felt  sure  that  he  had 
understood  her  motive  and  realised  that  it  was  for  him 
as  well  as  for  her  that  she  had  spoken. 

Now,  when  she  heard  of  his  catastrophe,  she  wondered 
if  he  would  come  back.  Did  men  come  back  ? — and  if 
they  did,  was  she  the  type  of  woman  they  came  back 
to  ?  Perhaps  she  was  too  quick,  too  antagonistic.  She 
told  herself  miserably  that  a  softer  woman  could  have 
saved  Reuben,  and  yet,  paradoxically,  a  softer  woman 
would  not  have  wished  to  do  so. 

She  had  seen  very  little  of  him  or  of  Rose  since  their 


322  SUSSEX    GORSE 

marriage.  Rose  and  she  had  never  been  friends,  and 
Reuben  she  knew  was  shy  of  her.  He  had  been  angry 
with  her  too,  because  she  had  not  carried  her  aching 
heart  on  her  sleeve.  Outwardly  she  had  worn  no  badge 
of  sorrow — she  was  just  as  quick,  just  as  combative, 
just  as  vivaciously  intellectual  as  she  had  always  been. 
Though  she  knew  that  she  had  lost  him  through  these 
very  characteristics,  with  which  she  had  also  attracted 
him,  she  made  no  effort  to  force  herself  into  a  different 
mould.  She  refused  to  regret  anything,  to  be  ashamed 
of  anything,  to  change  anything.  If  he  came  back  he 
should  find  the  same  woman  as  he  had  left. 

She  felt  that  he  would  come — he  would  return  to  her 
in  the  reaction  that  swung  him  from  Rose.  But  would 
she  be  able  to  keep  him  ?  She  did  not  feel  so  sure  of 
that — for  that  did  not  depend  on  her  or  on  him,  but  on 
that  mysterious  force  outside  themselves  with  which 
they  had  both  already  struggled  in  vain. 

§24- 

Reuben  scarcely  knew  what  brought  him  to  Cheat 
Land.  It  was  about  a  week  after  the  blow  fell  that  he 
found  himself  treading  the  once  familiar  lane,  lifting  the 
latch  of  the  garden  gate,  and  knocking  at  the  green 
house-door.  Nothing  had  changed,  except  to  fade  a 
little  and  show  some  signs  of  wear  and  tear.  Alice 
herself  had  not  changed,  nor  had  she  faded,  though  her 
cheeks  might  have  fallen  in  a  trifle  and  a  few  lines 
traced  themselves  round  her  mouth. 

"  Welcome/*  she  said,  and  laughed. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  forgot  to  be  angry  because  she 
had  laughed. 

"  Come  in,  and  we'll  have  a  talk.  Father's  out,  and 
mother's  upstairs." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  queer  little  kitchen,  which 
was  also  unchanged  except  for  the  fading  of  the  curtains, 


ALMOST    UNDER  323 

and  the  introduction  of  one  or  two  new  books  on  the 
shelves.  Alice  pulled  forward  his  old  chair,  and  sat 
down  opposite  him  on  the  settle.  She  wore  one  of 
her  long  wrapper-pinafores,  this  time  of  a  warm 
clay-colour,  which  seemed  to  put  a  glow  into  her 
chppks 

"  Well,  Alice,"  he  said  huskily. 

"  Well,  Reuben,  I'm  glad  to  see  you/' 

"  You've  heard  ?  J> 

She  nodded.    Then  she  said  gently  : 

"  Poor  Rose." 

Reuben  flushed. 

"  One  o'  my  victims,  eh  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  knew  you'd  rather  I  said  that  than  '  poor 
Reuben.'  " 

"  Reckon  I  would.  I  remember  as  how  you  wur 
always  trying  to  maake  out  as  my  lazy  good-fur-naun 
sons  wur  my  victims,  and  as  how  I'd  sacrificed  them  all 
to  my  farm  ;  now  I  reckon  you're  trying  to  do  the  same 
wud  Rose." 

"  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  dunno.  Somewheres  between  here  and  Canada. 
May  she  rot  there  lik  a  sheep  on  its  back,  and  her  man 
too.  Now  say  '  poor  Rose.'  " 

He  turned  on  her  almost  fiercely,  his  lips  curled  back 
from  his  teeth  in  a  sneer. 

"  If  you  speak  like  that  I'll  say  '  poor  Reuben.'  " 

"  Well,  say  it — you  woan't  be  far  wrong.  Wot  sort  o' 
chap  am  I  to  have  pride  ?  My  farm's  ruined,  my  wife's 
run  away,  my  children  have  left  me — wot  right  have  I 
to  be  proud  ?  " 

"  Because,  though  all  those  things  have  happened, 
you're  holding  your  head  up  still." 

"  But  I  aun't— yesterday  I  wur  fair  crying  and 
sobbing  in  front  of  all  the  children.  In  the  kitchen,  it 
wur — after  supper — I  put  down  my  head  on  the  table, 
and --" 


324  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Hush,  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more.  I  can  guess 
what  you  must  have  suffered.  I  expect  you  miss  Rose." 

"  I  do— justabout." 

"  So  should  I  in  your  place." 

"  She  wur  a  beautiful  woman,  Alice. "j 

Alice  nodded. 

"  Oh,  and  her  liddle  dentical  ways  !  " 

Alice  nodded  again. 

"  You  doan't  mind  me  talking  to  you  of  her  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not." 

"  She  wur  the  beautifullest  I've  known,  and  gay,  and 
sweet,  and  a  woman  to  love.  But  she  deceived  me.  I 
married  her  expecting  money,  and  there  wur  none — I 
married  her  fur  her  body,  and  she's  given  it  to  another." 

"  Well,  you're  not  a  hypocrite,  anyway.  You  don't 
pretend  you  married  her  for  any  but  the  lowest  motives." 

"  Wot  should  I  have  married  her  fur,  then  ?  " 

"  Some  people  marry  for  love." 

"  Love  ! — no.    I've  loved  but  one  woman." 

"  Me !  " 

They  had  both  said  more  than  they  intended,  and 
suddenly  realised  it.  Though  the  self-betrayal  meant 
most  to  Alice,  she  was  the  first  to  recover  a  steady  voice. 

"  But  that  does  not  matter  now,"  she  said  calmly. 

He  leaned  suddenly  forward  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Alice." 

Her  hand  lay  in  his,  a  very  small  thing,  and  her  head 
bent  towards  it.  She  did  not  want  him  to  see  her  cheeks 
flush  and  her  eyes  fill  at  this  his  first  caress. 

"  Alice — how  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  a  fool." 

"  I  guessed  too." 

"  Of  course  you  did.  I — I  gave  myself  away.  I 
pleaded  with  you." 

He  raised  her  hand  slowly  to  his  lips. 

"  I  forgot  you  all  the  time  I  wur  wud  Rose,"  he 
remarked  naively. 


ALMOST    UNDER  325 

"  You  needn't  tell  me  that." 

"  But  now  I — well,  it's  too  late  anyhow.  I'm  a 
married  man,  no  matter  that  my  wife's  in  Canada.  Of 
course,  I  could  git  a  divorce — but  I  woan't." 

"  No — it  would  cost  money." 

"  More  than  I  could  spare." 

Alice  laughed. 

"  I  never  looked  upon  Rose  as  my  rival — I  always 
knew  my  real  rival  was  your  farm,  and  though  now 
Rose  is  out  of  the  way,  that  still  stands  between  us." 

Reuben  was  silent.  He  sat  leaning  forward  in  his 
chair,  holding  Alice's  hand.  Then  he  abruptly  rose  to 
his  feet. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going.  It's  done  me  good,  our  talk. 
Not  that  you've  said  anything  particular  comforting, 
but  then  you  never  did.  It's  good  anyway  to  sit  wud 
a  woman  wot's  not  lik  a  fat  stroked  cat — not  a  thin 
kicked  one,  nuther,"  he  added  viciously,  remembering 
Caro.  "  You're  lik  a  liddle  tit-bird,  Alice.  I  love  you. 
But  I'm  not  sorry  I  didn't  marry  you,  for  you'd 
have  busted  me  same  as  Rose,  only  in  a  different 
way." 

"  Most  likely." 

She  laughed  again.  He  stooped  forward  and  kissed 
her  forehead,  and  the  laugh  died  on  her  lips. 


§25- 

The  rest  of  that  day  Reuben  was  a  little  happier.  He 
felt  comforted  and  stimulated,  life  was  not  so  leaden. 
In  the  evening  he  worked  a  little  in  the  hop-gardens. 
They  were  almost  cleared  now,  and  the  smoke  of  the 
drying  furnaces  was  streaming  through  the  cowls  of  the 
oasts,  shedding  into  the  dusk  a  drowsy,  malt-sweetened 
perfume.  When  the  moon  hung  like  a  yellow  splinter 
above  Iden  Wood,  the  pickers  went  home,  and  Reuben 


326  SUSSEX    GORSE 

turned  in  to  his  supper,  which  for  the  first  time  since 
Rose's  flight  he  ate  with  hearty  pleasure. 

He  could  not  tell  exactly  what  it  was  that  had 
invigorated  him,  and  jerked  him  out  of  his  despair.  It 
would  seem  as  if  Alice's  presence  alone  had  tonic 
qualities.  Perhaps  the  secret  lay  in  her  unchangeable  - 
ness.  He  had  gone  back  to  her  after  an  absence  of  five 
years,  and  found  her  just  the  same,  still  loving  him, 
still  fighting  him,  the  old  Alice.  Everything  else  had 
changed — his  farm  which  in  the  former  days  had 
been  the  thriving  envy  of  the  countryside  was  now 
little  better  than  a  ruin,  his  home  life  had  been  turned 
inside  out,  but  in  the  woman  over  at  Cheat  Land 
nothing  had  altered,  love  and  strength  and  faithfulness 
still  flourished  in  her.  It  was  as  if  a  man  stumbling  in 
darkness  should  suddenly  hear  a  loved,  familiar  voice 
say  "  Here  I  am."  The  situation  summed  itself  up  in 
three  words — She  was  there  ;  and  his  heart  added — 
"  for  me  to  take  if  I  choose." 

In  spite  of  his  revived  spirits  he  could  not  sleep,  but 
he  went  up  early  to  his  room,  for  he  wanted  to  think. 
During  the  evening  the  idea  had  gained  on  him  that  he 
could  still  have  Alice  if  he  wanted  her,  and  with  the  idea 
had  grown  the  sensation  that  he  wanted  her  with  all  his 
heart. 

His  return  had  been  complete.  All  that  she  had  ever 
had  and  lost  of  empire  had  re-established  itself  during 
that  hour  at  Cheat  Land.  He  wanted  her  as  he  had 
wanted  her  before  he  met  Rose,  but  with  a  renewed 
intensity,  for  he  was  no  longer  mystified  by  his  desire. 
He  no  longer  asked  himself  how  he  could  possibly  love 
"  a  liddle  stick  of  a  woman  like  her,"  for  he  saw  how 
utterly  love-worthy  she  was  and  had  always  been.  For 
the  first  time  he  saw  as  his,  if  only  he  would  take  it,  a 
great  woman's  faithful  love.  This  love  of  Alice  Jury's 
had  nothing  akin  to  Naomi's  poor  little  fluttering 
passion,  or  to  Rose's  fascination,  half  appetite,  half 


ALMOST    UNDER  327 

game.  Someone  loved  him  truly,  strongly,  purely, 
deeply,  with  a  fire  that  could  be  extinguished  only  by 
death  or — he  realised  in  a  dim  way — her  own  will.  The 
question  was,  should  he  pay  the  price  this  love  de- 
manded, take  it  to  himself  at  the  cost  of  the  ambitions 
that  had  fed  his  life  for  forty  years  ? 

He  sat  down  by  the  open  window,  leaning  his  elbow 
on  the  sill.  The  night  was  as  soft  as  honey,  and  dark 
as  a  bowl  of  wine.  The  stars  were  scattered  and  dim, 
the  moon  had  dipped  into  a  belt  of  fogs,  the  fields  were 
bloomed  with  darkness  and  sleep.  The  ridge  of  Boar- 
zell  was  just  visible  under  the  Dog  Star — the  lump  of 
firs  stood  motionless,  for  the  wind  had  dropped,  and 
not  even  a  whisper  from  the  orchard  proclaimed  its 
sleeping  place. 

Reuben's  eyes  swept  the  dim  outlines  of  his  farm — 
the  yard,  the  barns,  the  oasts,  the  fields  beyond,  up  to 
where  his  boundaries  scarred  the  waste.  It  was  all 
blurred  and  blanketed  in  the  darkness,  but  his  mind 
could  see  it  in  every  detail.  He  saw  the  cow-stable 
empty  except  for  the  six  cheap  Suffolks  which  just 
supplied  his  household  and  one  or  two  gentry  with 
milk ;  he  saw  doors  split  and  unhinged  that  he  could 
not  afford  to  mend,  gaping  roofs  that  he  could  not 
afford  to  retile,  while  the  martins  stole  his  thatch  for 
their  autumn  broods  ;  he  saw  his  oat-harvest  mostly 
straw,  his  hop-harvest  gathered  at  a  loss,  his  hay  spoiled 
with  sorrel ;  he  saw  himself  short  of  labour,  one  man 
turned  off,  another  run  away  ;  and  he  saw  all  the  flints 
and  shards  and  lime  of  Boarzell  breaking  his  plough, 
choking  his  winter  wheat,  while  on  the  lower  ground 
runnels  of  clay  made  his  corn  sedgy,  and  everywhere 
the  tough,  wiry  fibres  of  the  gorse  drank  all  the  little 
there  was  of  goodness  out  of  the  ground  and  scattered 
it  from  its  blossoms  in  useless  fragrance. 

This  was  what  his  forty  years  of  struggle  had  brought 
him  to.  He  saw  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  huge  am- 


328  SUSSEX    GORSE 

bilious  ruin.  He  had  failed,  his  hopes  were  blighted — 
what  could  he  expect  to  pull  out  of  this  wreck.  It  would 
be  far  better  and  wiser  if  he  gave  up  the  dreary  un- 
certain battle,  and  took  the  sure  rest  at  hand.  If  he 
sold  some  of  the  more  fruitful  part  of  his  land  he  would 
be  able  to  divorce  Rose,  then  he  could  marry  Alice  and 
live  with  her  a  quiet,  shorn,  unambitious  life.  No  one 
would  buy  the  new  ground  on  Boarzell,  but  he  could 
easily  sell  the  low  fields  by  the  Glotten  brook  ;  that 
would  leave  him  with  twenty  or  thirty  acres  of  fairly 
good  land  round  the  farm,  and  all  his  useless  encroach- 
ments on  Boarzell  which  he  would  allow  to  relapse  into 
their  former  state.  He  would  have  enough  to  live  upon, 
to  support  his  children  and  his  delicate  wife — he  would 
be  able  to  take  no  risks  and  make  no  ventures,  but  he 
would  be  comfortable. 

His  old  father's  words  came  back  to  him — "  I've  no 
ambitions,  so  I'm  a  happy  man.  I  doan't  want  nothing 
I  haven't  got,  so  I  haven't  got  nothing  I  doan't  want." 
Perhaps  his  father  had  been  right.  After  all,  what  had 
he,  Reuben,  got  by  being  ambitious  ?  Comfort,  peace, 
home-life,  wife,  children,  were  all  so  many  bitter  words 
to  him,  and  his  great  plans  themselves  had  crumbled 
into  failure — he  had  lost  everything  to  gain  nothing. 

Far  better  give  up  the  struggle  while  there  was  the 
chance  of  an  honourable  retreat.  He  realised  that  he 
was  at  the  turning  point — a  step  further  along  his  old 
course  and  he  would  lose  Alice,  a  step  along  the  road 
she  pointed,  and  he  would  lose  Boarzell.  After  all  he 
had  not  won  Boarzell,  most  likely  never  would  win  it — 
if  he  persisted  on  his  old  ways  they  would  probably 
only  lead  him  to  ruin,  and  later  there  might  be  no  Alice 
to  turn  to.  If  he  renounced  her  now,  he  would  be 
definitely  pledging  himself  to  Boarzell  and  all  his 
soaring,  tottering  schemes — he  would  not  be  able  to 
"  come  back  "  a  second  time. 

If  he  lost  Alice  now  he  might  be  losing  her  for  a  dream, 


ALMOST    UNDER  329 

a  bubble,  a  will-o'-the-wisp.  Surely  he  would  be  wise  to 
pull  what  he  could  out  of  the  wreck,  take  her,  and  forget 
all  else.  Only  a  fool  would  turn  away  from  her  now,  and 
press  forward.  In  the  old  days  it  had  been  different,  he 
had  been  successful  then — now  he  was  a  failure,  and  saw 
his  chance  to  fail  honourably.  Better  take  it  before  it 
was  too  late. 

His  mind  painted  him  a  picture  it  had  never  dared 
paint  before — the  comfortable  red  house  basking  in 
sunshine,  with  a  garden  full  of  flowers,  a  cow  or  two  at 
pasture  in  the  meadow,  the  little  hop-field  his  only  tilth 
— his  dear  frail  wife  sitting  in  the  porch,  his  children 
playing  at  her  feet  or  reading  at  her  knee — perhaps  they 
were  hers  too,  perhaps  they  were  not.  He  saw  himself 
contented,  growing  stout,  wanting  nothing  he  hadn't 
got,  so  having  nothing  he  didn't  want  ...  he  was 
leaning  over  her  chair,  and  gazing  away  into  the  southern 
distance  where  Boarzell  lay  against  the  sky,  all  patched 
with  heather  and  thorns,  all  golden  with  gorse,  un- 
irrigated,  uncultivated,  without  furrow  or  fence.  .  .  . 

...  A  shudder  passed  through  Reuben,  a  long  shudder 
of  his  flesh,  for  in  at  the  open  window  had  drifted  the 
scent  of  the  gorse  on  Boarzell.  It  came  on  no  wind,  the 
night  was  windless  as  before.  It  just  seemed  to  creep 
to  him  over  the  fields,  to  hang  on  the  air  like  a  reproach. 
It  was  the  scent  of  peaches  and  apricots,  of  sunshine 
caught  and  distilled.  He  leaned  forward  out  of  the 
window,  and  thought  he  could  see  the  glimmer  of  the 
gorse-clumps  under  the  stars. 

The  edge  of  Boarzell  was  outlined  black  against  the 
faintly  paler  sky — he  traced  it  from  the  woods  in  which 
it  rose,  up  to  its  crest  of  firs,  then  down  into  the  woods 
again.  Once  more  it  lay  between  him  and  the  soft 
desires  of  his  weakness ;  as  long  ago  at  Cheat  Land,  it 
called  him  back  to  his  allegiance  like  a  love  forsaken. 
In  the  black  quiet  it  lay  hullish  like  some  beast — but  it 
was  more  than  a  beast  to-night.  It  was  like  the  gorse 


380  SUSSEX    GORSE 

on  its  heights,  delicate  perfume  as  well  as  murderous 
fibre,  sweetness  as  well  as  ferocity.  The  scent,  im- 
pregnating the  motionless  air,  seemed  to  remind  him 
that  Boarzell  was  his  love  as  well  as  his  enemy — more, 
far  more  to  him  than  Alice. 

His  ambition  flared  up  like  a  damped  furnace,  and  he 
suddenly  saw  himself  a  coward  ever  to  have  thought  of 
rest.  Boarzell  was  more  to  him  than  any  woman  in 
the  world.  For  the  sake  of  one  weak  woman  he  was 
not  going  to  sacrifice  all  his  hopes  and  dreams  and 
enterprises,  the  great  love  of  his  life. 

Boarzell,  not  Alice,  should  be  his.  He  muttered  the 
words  aloud  as  he  strained  his  eyes  into  the  darkness, 
tracing  the  beloved  outline.  He  despised  himself  for 
having  wavered  even  in  thought.  Through  blood  and 
tears — others'  and  his  own — he  would  wade  to  Boarzell, 
and  conquer  it  at  last.  From  that  night  all  would  be 
changed,  the  past  should  be  thrust  behind  him,  he 
would  pull  himself  together,  make  himself  a  man.  Alice 
must  go  where  everything  else  had  gone — mother,  wife, 
children,  friends,  and  love.  Thank  God  !  Boarzell  was 
worth  more  to  him  than  all  these. 

Leaning  out  of  the  window,  he  breathed  in  the  scent 
of  his  slumbering  land.  His  lips  parted,  his  eyes 
brightened,  the  lines  of  care  and  age  grew  softer  on  his 
face.  With  his  darling  ambition,  he  seemed  to  recover 
his  youth — once  more  he  felt  the  blood  glowing  in  his 
veins,  while  zeal  and  adventure  throbbed  together  in 
his  heart.  He  had  conquered  the  softer  mood,  and 
banished  the  sweet  unworthy  dreams  for  ever.  Alice — 
who  had  nearly  vanquished  him — should  go  the  way  of 
all  enemies. 

And  the  last  enemy  to  be  destroyed  is  Love. 


BOOK  VI 
STRUGGLING   UP 


THAT    night    was   a    purging.       From    thence- 
forward Reuben  was   to   press    on   straight   to 
his  goal,  with  no   more   slackenings   or    diver- 
sions. 

He  had  learned  one  sound  lesson,  which  was  the 
superfluousness  of  women  in  the  scheme  of  life.  From 
henceforward  he  was  "  shut  of  "  them.  Long  ago  he 
had  denied  himself  women  in  their  more  casual  aspect, 
using  them  entirely  for  practical  purposes,  but  now  he 
realised  that  women  no  longer  had  any  practical  purpose 
as  far  as  he  was  concerned.  The  usefulness  of  woman 
was  grossly  overrated.  It  is  true  that  she  produced  off- 
spring, but  he  thought  irritably  that  Providence  might 
have  found  some  more  satisfactory  way  of  perpetuating 
the  human  race.  Everything  a  woman  did  was  bound 
to  go  wrong  somehow.  She  was  nothing  but  a  parasite 
and  an  incubus,  a  blood-sucking  triviality,  an  expense 
and  a  snare.  So  he  tore  woman  out  of  his  life  as  he  tore 
up  the  gorse  on  Boarzell. 

It  was  wonderful  how  soon  he  adapted  himself  to  his 
new  conditions.  At  first  he  missed  Rose,  but  by  the 
time  he  had  got  rid  of  her  clothes  and  swept  the  perfume 
of  her  out  of  his  room,  he  had  ceased  to  hunger.  He 
never  heard  of  her  again  —  he  never  knew  what  life  she 
led  in  the  new  land,  whether  the  reality  of  love  brought 
her  as  much  happiness  as  the  game,  or  whether  her  old 


332  SUSSEX    GORSE 

taste  for  luxury  and  pleasure  reasserted  itself  and 
ruined  both  love  and  lover. 

As  for  Alice,  he  found  to  his  surprise  that  she  was  not 
so  dangerous  even  as  Rose,  for  an  ideal  is  never  so 
enslaving  as  a  habit.  He  avoided  Cheat  Land,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  bring  her  across  his  path  as  long  as  he 
did  not  seek  her.  So  the  yoke  of  woman  dropped  from 
Reuben's  neck,  leaving  him  a  free  man. 

He  formed  a  plan  of  campaign.  The  large  un- 
reclaimed tracts  of  Boarzell  must  be  left  for  a  time,  while 
he  devoted  his  attention  to  the  land  already  cultivated. 
He  must  economise  in  labour,  so  he  hired  no  one  in 
Handshut's  place,  but  divided  his  work  among  the  other 
men.  His  rekindled  zeal  was  hot  enough  to  ignite 
even  the  dry  sticks  of  their  enterprise,  and  Odiam  toiled 
as  it  had  never  toiled  before.  Even  Harry  was  pressed 
for  service,  and  helped  feed  the  pigs  and  calves,  besides 
proving  himself  a  most  efficient  scarecrow. 

Early  the  next  spring  Reuben  had  a  stroke  of  luck, 
for  he  was  able  to  sell  the  remainder  of  his  lease  of  the 
Landgate  shop  to  a  greengrocer.  With  the  proceeds  he 
bought  half  a  dozen  more  cows,  and  grounded  his  dairy 
business  more  firmly.  In  spite  of  his  increased  herd  he 
still  had  several  acres  of  superfluous  pasture,  and 
pocketing  his  pride,  advertised  "  keep "  for  stock, 
which  resulted  in  his  pocketing  also  some  much-needed 
cash.  His  most  immediate  ambition  was  to  pay  off  the 
mortgage  he  had  raised  a  year  ago,  and  restore  to  Odiam 
its  honourable  freedom. 

It  seemed  almost  as  if  his  luck  had  turned,  for  the 
harvests  that  year  were  exceedingly  good.  In  most  of 
his  fields  there  were  two  hay-crops,  while  the  oats  and 
wheat  yielded  generously,  even  on  Boarzell.  As  for  the 
hops,  he  reaped  a  double  triumph,  for  not  only  did  his 
hop-gardens  bring  in  more  than  the  average  to  the  acre, 
but  almost  everyone  else  in  the  neighbourhood  did 
badly,  so  prices  rose  in  a  gratifying  way. 


STRUGGLING    UP  333 

Under  this  encouragement,  part  of  the  old  adven- 
turous spirit  revived,  and  Reuben  bought  a  Highly 
Commended  bull  at  Lewes  Fair,  and  advertised  him 
for  service.  In  spite  of  catastrophe,  he  still  believed 
cattle-rearing  to  be  the  most  profitable  part  of  a  farmer's 
business,  and  resolved  to  build  up  his  own  concern  on 
its  old  lines.  With  regard  to  the  dairy,  Caro  was  an 
excellent  dairy  woman,  besides  looking  after  the  two 
little  children,  and  Odiam  had  a  fair  custom  for  its 
dairy  produce,  also  for  fruit  and  vegetables. 

Thus,  in  a  very  small  way,  and  with  continual  hard 
work  and  anxiety,  the  farm  was  beginning  to  revive. 
Reuben  felt  that  he  was  recapturing  his  prestige  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and,  when  his  labours  allowed  him, 
assisted  the  good  work  by  drinking  slow  glasses  of 
sherry  in  the  bar  of  the  Cocks,  and  making  patronising 
remarks  about  his  neighbours'  concerns. 

He  was  glad  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that  he  had 
not  been  wooed  from  his  ambition,  in  a  moment  of 
weakness,  by  softer  dreams  which  he  now  looked  upon 
as  so  much  dust. 

§2. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  year  Reuben  had  news 
of  all  his  absent  sons,  except  Benjamin,  who  was  never 
heard  of  again. 

One  day  Caro  came  home  from  Rye,  where  she  had 
gone  with  the  vegetables  to  market,  and  said  that  she 
had  met  Bessie  Lamb.  Bessie  was  on  her  way  to  the 
station,  where  she  would  take  the  train  for  Southampton. 
Robert  had  written  that  he  was  now  able  to  have  her 
with  him  in  Australia,  and  she  had  at  once  packed  up 
her  few  belongings  and  set  out  to  join  him  in  the  un- 
known. 

Bessie  was  now  thirty,  and  looked  older,  for  she  had 
lost  a  front  tooth  and  her  pretty  hair  had  faded :  but 
she  was  as  confident  of  Robert's  love  as  ever.  He  had 


334  SUSSEX    GORSE 

written  to  her  by  every  mail,  she  told  Caro,  and  they  had 
both  saved  and  scraped  and  waited  and  counted  the 
days  till  they  could  consummate  the  love  born  in  those 
fields  eternally  fixed  in  twilight  by  their  memory. 
There  had  been  no  intercourse  between  Odiam  and  Eggs 
Hole,  so,  as  Robert  had  never  written  to  his  family, 
Caro  heard  for  the  first  time  of  the  sheep-farm  in  Queens- 
land and  its  success.  He  had  done  badly  at  first,  Bessie 
said,  what  with  the  drought  and  many  other  things 
against  him,  but  now  he  was  well  established,  and  she 
would  be  far  better  off  and  more  comfortable  as  the 
felon's  wife  than  she  had  ever  been  as  the  daughter  of 
honest  parents. 

She  left  Caro  with  a  restless  aching  in  her  heart.  In 
spite  of  the  lost  front  tooth  and  the  faded  hair,  she  had 
impressed  her  in  much  the  same  way  as  Rose  on  her 
wedding  night.  Here  was  another  woman  sure  of  love 
looking  confidently  into  a  happy  future,  wooed  and  sought 
after,  a  man's  bride.  .  .  .  Jolting  home  in  the  empty 
vegetable  cart  beside  Peter,  one  or  two  tears  found 
their  way  down  Caro's  cheek.  Oh,  if  only  some  man, 
no  matter  whom,  tyrant,  criminal,  no  matter  what, 
would  love  her,  give  her  for  one  moment  those  divine 
sensations  which  she  had  seen  other  women  enjoy  ! 
Why  must  she  alone,  of  all  the  women  she  knew,  be 
loveless  ? 

It  was  her  father's  fault,  he  had  kept  her  to  work  for 
him,  he  had  starved  her  purposely  of  men's  society — 
and  now  her  youth  was  departing,  she  was  twenty- 
nine,  and  she  had  never  heard  a  man  speak  words  of 
love,  or  felt  his  arms  about  her,  or  the  sweetness  of  his 
lips  on  hers. 

When  they  came  to  Odiam,  she  told  Reuben  what 
she  had  heard  about  Robert. 

"  Would  you  believe  it,  he  has  a  hundred  sheep — 
and  a  man  working  under  him — and  money  coming  in 
quite  easy  now.  It  wur  hard  at  first,  Bessie  says,  and 


STRUGGLING    UP  335 

he  wur  in  tedious  heart  over  it  all,  but  he  pulled  through 
his  bad  times,  and  now  he's  doing  valiant/' 

"  And  who  has  he  got  to  thank  fur  it,  I'd  lik  to 
know  ?  Who  taught  him  how  to  run  a  farm,  and  work, 
and  never  spare  himself  and  pull  things  through  ? 
There  he  wur,  wud  no  sperrit  in  him,  grudging  every 
stroake  he  did  fur  Odiam.  If  I  hadn't  kept  him  to  it, 
where  'ud  he  be  now  ?  " 

News  of  Richard  came  a  few  months  later.  He  was 
heard  of  as  a  barrister  on  the  Southern  Circuit,  and 
defended  a  gipsy  on  trial  for  turnip-stealing  at  Lewes. 
Rumours  of  him  began  to  spread  in  the  neighbour- 
hood— he  was  doing  well,  Anne  Bardon  was  working 
for  him,  and  he  was  likely  to  be  a  credit  to  her.  At 
the  Cocks  he  was  the  subject  of  much  respectful  com- 
ment, and  for  the  first  time  Reuben  found  himself 
bathed  in  glory  reflected  from  one  of  his  children.  He 
could  not  help  feeling  proud  of  him,  but  wished  he  did 
not  owe  anything  to  the  Bar  dons. 

"  Tedious  argumentatious  liddle  varmint  he  wur — 
I'm  not  surprised  as  he's  turned  a  lawyer.  And  he  had 
good  training  fur  it,  too.  There's  naun  to  sharpen  the 
wits  lik  a  farmer's  life,  and  I  kept  him  at  it,  tough  and 
rough,  though  he'd  have  got  away  if  he  cud.  Many's 
the  time  I've  wopped  him  near  a  jelly  fur  being  a  lazy- 
bones, and  particular,  which  you  can't  be  and  a  lawyer 
too.  But  I  reckon  he  thinks  it's  all  that  Bardon  woman's 
doing." 

A  few  weeks  later  Richard  wrote  himself,  breaking 
the  silence  of  years.  Success  had  made  him  feel  more 
kindly  towards  his  father.  He  forgave  the  frustrations 
and  humiliations  of  his  youth,  and  enquired  after  his 
brothers  and  sisters  and  the  progress  of  the  old  farm. 
Anne  Bardon  had  kept  him  fairly  well  posted  in  Back- 
field  history,  but  though  he  knew  of  Reuben's  unlucky 
marriage  and  of  the  foot-and-mouth  catastrophe,  he 
j  had  evidently  lost  count  of  absconding  sons,  for  he 


336  SUSSEX    GORSE 

seemed  to  think  Pete  had  run  away  too,  which  Reuben 
considered  an  unjustifiable  aspersion  on  his  domestic 
order.  However,  the  general  tone  of  his  letter  was  con- 
ciliatory, and  his  remarks  on  the  cattle-plague  "  most 
praaper." 

As  for  himself,  his  life  had  been  full  of  hard  work 
and  the  happiness  of  endeavour  crowned  at  last  by 
success.  Anne  Bardon  he  referred  to  as  an  angel,  which 
made  Reuben  chuckle  grimly.  He  had  already  had  a 
brief,  though  he  was  called  to  the  bar  only  two  years 
ago — which  struck  his  father  as  very  slow  business. 

He  also  gave  news  of  Albert,  but  not  good  news.  He 
had  kept  more  or  less  in  touch  with  his  brother,  and 
had  done  what  he  could  to  help  him,  yet  Albert  had 
made  a  mess  of  his  literary  life,  partly  through  incapacity, 
partly  through  dissipation.  He  had  wasted  his  money 
and  neglected  his  chances,  and  his  friends  could  do  little 
for  him.  Richard  had  come  more  than  once  to  the  rescue, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  give  real  help  to  one  of  his 
weak  nature — also  Richard  was  still  poor,  and  anxious 
to  pay  off  his  debts  to  Anne  Bardon. 

"  I  reckon/'  said  Reuben,  "  as  how  they'd  all  have 
been  better  off  if  they'd  stayed  at  home." 

§3- 

Soon  afterwards  a  letter  came  from  Albert,  asking 
for  money,  but  again  Reuben  forbade  any  notice  to 
be  taken  of  it.  For  one  thing  he  could  not  afford  to 
help  anyone,  for  another  he  would  not  even  in  years  of 
plenty  have  helped  a  renegade  like  Albert.  His  blood 
still  boiled  when  he  remembered  the  boy's  share  in  his 
political  humiliation.  He  had  shamed  his  father  and 
his  father's  farm.  Let  him  rot  ! 

So  Albert's  letter  remained  unanswered — Caro  felt 
that  Reuben  was  unjust.  She  had  grown  very  critical 
of  him  lately,  and  a  smarting  dislike  coloured  her  judg- 


STRUGGLING    UP  337 

ments.  After  all,  it  was  he  who  had  driven  everybody 
to  whatever  it  was  that  had  disgraced  him.  He  was 
to  blame  for  Robert's  theft,  for  Albert's  treachery,  for 
Richard's  base  dependence  on  the  Bardons,  for  George's 
death,  for  Benjamin's  disappearance,  for  Tilly's  marriage, 
for  Rose's  elopement — it  was  a  heavy  load,  but  Caro 
put  the  whole  of  it  on  Reuben's  shoulders,  and  added, 
moreover,  the  tragedy  of  her  own  warped  life.  He  was 
a  tyrant,  who  sucked  his  children's  blood,  and  cursed 
them  when  they  succeeded  in  breaking  free. 

Caro  had  been  much  unhappier  since  Rose's  flight. 
She  had  loved  her  in  an  erratic  envious  way,  and  Rose's 
gaiety  and  flutters  of  generosity  had  done  much  to 
brighten  her  humdrum  life.  Now  she  was  left  to  her 
brooding.  She  felt  lonely  and  friendless.  Once  or 
twice  she  went  over  to  Grandturzel,  but  the  visits  were 
always  difficult  to  manage,  and  somehow  the  sight  of  her 
sister's  happiness  made  her  sore  without  enlivening  her. 

It  was  only  lately  that  her  longing  for  love  and  free- 
dom had  become  a  torment.  Up  till  a  year  or  two  ago 
her  desires  had  been  merely  wistful.  Now  a  restless 
hunger  gnawed  at  her  heart,  setting  her  continually 
searching  after  change  and  brightness.  She  had  come 
to  hate  her  household  duties  and  the  care  of  the  little 
boys.  She  wanted  to  dance — dance — dance — to  dance 
at  fairs  and  balls,  to  wear  pretty  clothes,  and  be  admired 
and  courted.  Why  should  she  not  have  these  things  ? 
She  was  not  so  ugly  as  many  girls  who  had  them.  It 
was  cruel  that  she  should  never  have  been  allowed  to 
know  a  man,  never  allowed  to  enjoy  herself  or  have  her 
fling.  Even  the  sons  of  the  neighbouring  farmers  had 
been  kept  away  from  her — by  her  father,  greedy  for 
her  work.  Tilly,  by  a  lucky  chance,  had  found  a  man, 
but  lucky  chances  never  came  to  Caro.  She  saw  herself 
living  out  her  life  as  a  household  drudge,  dying  an  old 
maid,  all  coarsened  by  uncongenial  work,  all  starved  of 
love,  all  sick  of,  yet  still  hungry  for,  life. 


338  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Sometimes  she  would  be  overwhelmed  by  self-pity, 
and  would  weep  bitterly  over  whatever  task  she  was 
doing  at  the  time,  so  that  her  tears  were  quite  a  usual 
sauce  to  pies  and  puddings  if  only  Reuben  had  known  it. 

The  year  passed,  and  the  new  year  came,  showing 
the  farm  still  on  the  upward  struggle,  with  everyone 
hard  at  work,  and  no  one,  except  Reuben,  enjoying  it 
particularly.  Luck  again  favoured  Odiam — the  lamb- 
ing of  that  spring  was  the  best  for  years,  and  as  the  days 
grew  longer  the  furrows  bloomed  with  tender  green 
sproutings,  and  hopes  of  another  good  harvest  ran 
high. 

Caro  watched  the  year  bud  and  flower — May  came 
and  creamed  the  hedges  with  blossom  and  rusted  the 
grass  with  the  first  heats.  Then  June  whitened  the 
fields  with  big  moon-daisies  and  frothed  the  banks  with 
chervil  and  fennel.  The  evenings  were  tender,  languor- 
ous, steeped  in  the  scent  of  hay.  They  hurt  Caro  with 
their  sweetness,  so  that  she  scarcely  dared  lift  her  eyes 
to  the  purpling  twilight  sky,  or  breathe  the  wind  that 
swept  up  heavy  with  hay  and  roses  from  the  fields. 
July  did  nothing  to  heal  her — its  yellow,  heat-throbbing 
dawns  smote  her  with  despair — its  noons  were  a  long- 
drawn  ache,  and  when  in  the  evening  hay  and  dust 
and  drooping  chervil  troubled  the  air  with  shreds  and 
ghosts  of  scent,  something  almost  akin  to  madness 
would  twist  her  heart. 

She  felt  as  one  whose  memory  calls  and  yet  has 
nothing  to  remember,  whose  thoughts  run  to  and  fro 
and  yet  has  nothing  to  think  of,  whose  hopes  pile  them- 
selves, and  yet  is  hopeless,  whose  love  cries  out  from 
the  depths,  and  yet  is  loveless. 

One  evening  at  the  beginning  of  August  she  wandered 
out  of  the  kitchen  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air  in  the  garden 
before  going  up  to  bed.  Her  head  ached,  and  her 
cheeks  burned  from  the  fire.  She  did  not  know  it,  but 
the  flush  and  fever  made  her  nearly  beautiful.  She  was 


STRUGGLING    UP  339 

not  a  bad-looking  woman,  though  a  trifle  too  dark  and 
heavy-featured,  and  now  the  glow  on  her  cheeks  and 
the  restless  brilliancy  of  her  eyes  had  kindled  her  almost 
into  loveliness. 

She  picked  one  or  two  roses  that  drooped  untended 
against  the  fence,  she  held  them  to  her  breast,  and  the 
tears  came  into  her  eyes.  It  was  nearly  dark,  and  the 
lustreless  cobalt  sky  held  only  one  star — Aldebaran, 
red  above  BoarzelFs  firs.  A  puff  of  wind  came  from  the 
west,  and  with  it  a  snatch  of  song.  Someone  was  singing 
on  the  Moor,  and  the  far-away  voice  wove  itself  into 
the  web  of  trouble  and  yearning  that  dimmed  her 
heart. 

She  moved  down  to  the  gate  and  leaned  over  it,  while 
her  eyes  roved  the  twilight  unseeing.  The  voice  on  the 
Moor  swelled  clearer.  It  was  a  man's  voice,  low-pitched 
and  musical : 

"  Farewell,  farewell,  you  jolly  young  girls  ! 
We're  off  to  Rio  Bay  !  " 

She  remembered  that  there  had  been  a  wedding  at 
Gablehook.  One  of  the  farmer's  girls  had  married  a 
Rye  fisherman,  and  this  was  probably  a  guest  on  his 
way  home,  a  little  the  worse  for  drink. 

"  At  Vera  Cruz  the  days  are  fine — 
Farewell  to  Jane  and  Caroline  !  " 

The  song  with  its  hearty  callousness  broke  strangely 
into  the  dusk  and  Caro's  palpitating  dreams.  Some- 
thing about  it  enticed  and  troubled  her  ;  the  singer  was 
coming  nearer. 

"  At  Nombre  de  Dios  the  skies  are  blue — 
Farewell  to  Moll,  farewell  to  Sue  1  " 

She  stood  at  the  gate  and  could  see  him  as  a  blot  on 
the  Moor.  He  was  coming  towards  Odiam,  and  she 


340  SUSSEX    GORSE 

watched  him  as  he  plunged  through  the  heather,  singing 
at  the  pitch  of  his  lungs  : 

"  At  Santiago  love  is  kind, 

And  we'll  forget  those  left  behind — 
So  kiss  us  long,  and  kiss  us  well, 
Polly  and  Meg  and  Kate  and  Nell — 

Farewell,  farewell,  you  jolly  young  girls  ! 
We're  off  to  Rio  Bay." 

He  had  struck  the  path  that  ran  by  the  bottom  of 
the  garden,  and  swaggered  along  it  with  the  seaman's 
peculiar  rolling  gait,  accentuated  by  strong  liquor. 
Caro  felt  him  coming  nearer,  and  told  herself  uneasily 
that  she  had  better  go  back  into  the  house.  He  was 
drunk,  and  he  might  speak  to  her.  Still  she  did  not 
move,  she  found  herself  clinging  to  the  gate,  leaning 
her  breast  against  it,  while  her  tongue  felt  thick  and 
dry  in  her  mouth. 

He  was  quite  close — she  could  hear  the  thud  of  his 
step  on  the  soft  earth.  Her  hands  grasped  the  two 
gate-posts,  and  she  leaned  forward  over  the  gate,  so 
that  her  face  caught  the  faint  radiance  that  still  lingered 
in  the  zenith.  He  had  stopped  singing,  but  she  could 
see  him  now  distinctly — a  tall,  loosely-built  figure,  with 
dark  face,  and  woolly  hair  like  a  nigger's,  while  his 
seaman's  earrings  caught  the  starlight. 

He  drew  level  with  her,  not  seeing  her.  She  did  not 
move,  she  scarcely  breathed,  and  he  had  almost  passed 
her  .  .  .  then  suddenly  his  eyes  turned  and  met  hers. 

"  Hello,  Susan  !  " 

He  stood  swaying  before  her  on  his  heels,  his  hands 
in  his  trouser-pockets,  his  head  a  little  on  one  side. 
Caro  did  not  speak — she  could  not. 

"  What  time  is  it,  dear  ?  " 

"  I — I  dunno,"  she  faltered,  her  voice  sounding 
squeaky  and  unlike  her  own  :  "  it  might  be  nine." 

"  It  might  be  Wales  or  Madagasky, 
It  might  be  Rio  de  Janeiro." 


STRUGGLING    UP  341 

he  trolled,  and  Caro  was  suddenly  afraid  lest  someone 
should  hear  in  the  house.  She  glanced  back  uneasily 
over  her  shoulder. 

"  Papa  on  the  look-out  ?  " 

She  coloured,  and  began  to  stutter  something. 

"  I've  been  to  a  wedding/'  he  said  conversationally ; 
"  a  proper  wedding  with  girls  and  kisses." 

He  suddenly  leaned  over  the  gate  and  kissed  Caro  on 
the  lips. 

She  gave  a  little  scream  and  started  back  from  him. 
For  a  moment  earth,  sky,  and  trees  seemed  to  reel 
together  in  one  crazy  dance.  She  was  conscious  of 
nothing  but  the  kiss,  her  first  kiss  ;  it  had  smelt  and 
tasted  strongly  of  brandy,  if  the  truth  were  told,  but 
it  had  none  the  less  been  a  kiss,  and  her  sacrament  of 
initiation.  She  stood  there  in  the  darkness  with  parted 
lips  and  shining  eyes.  The  dusk  was  kind  to  her,  and 
she  pleased  the  sailor. 

"  Come  out  for  a  walk/'  he  said,  and  lifted  the  latch. 

Caro  trembled  so  that  she  could  hardly  move,  and 
once  again  came  the  feeling  that  she  ought  to  turn  and 
run  back  into  the  house.  But  she  was  powerless  in 
the  clutch  of  her  long-thwarted  emotions.  The  tipsy 
sailor  became  God  to  her,  and  she  followed  him  out  on 
to  the  Moor. 

After  all  he  was  not  really  drunk,  only  a  little  fuddled. 
He  walked  straight,  and  his  roll  was  natural  to  him, 
while  though  he  was  exceedingly  cheerful,  and  often 
burst  into  song,  his  words  were  not  jumbled,  and  he 
generally  seemed  to  have  a  fair  idea  of  what  he  was 
saying. 

She  wondered  if  she  were  awake — everything  seemed 
so  strange,  so  new,  and  yet  paradoxically  so  natural. 
Was  she  the  same  Caro  who  had  washed  the  babies 
and  cooked  the  supper  and  resigned  herself  to  dying  an 
old  maid  ?  She  could  not  ponder  things,  ask  herself 
how  it  was  that  a  man  who  had  not  known  her  ten 


342  SUSSEX    GORSE 

minutes  could  love  her — all  she  realised  was  his  arm  round 
her  waist,  and  in  her  heart  a  seethe  of  happy  madness. 

"  When  the  stars  are  up  above  the  Main 
And  winking  in  the  sea, 
Tis  then  I  dream  of  thee, 

Emilee  ! 
And  my  dreams  are  full  of  pain  " 

— sang  the  sailor  sentimentally.  His  arm  crept  up  from 
her  waist  to  her  shoulder  and  lay  heavy  there.  They 
strolled  on  along  the  narrow  path,  and  the  darkness 
stole  down  on  them  from  the  Moor,  wrapping  them 
softly  together.  They  told  each  other  their  names — 
his  was  Joe  Dansay,  and  he  was  a  sailorman  of  Rye, 
who  had  been  on  many  voyages  to  South  America  and 
the  Coral  Seas.  He  looked  about  twenty-five,  though 
he  was  tanned  and  weather-beaten  all  over.  His  eyes 
were  dark  and  foreign -looking,  so  was  his  hair.  His 
mouth  was  a  trifle  too  wide,  his  nose  short  and  stubborn. 

He  was  now  leaning  heavily  on  Caro  as  he  walked,  and 
too  shy,  and  perhaps  reluctant,  to  ask  him  to  lift  his  arm, 
she  naively  suggested  that  they  should  sit  down  and 
rest.  Dansay  was  delighted — she  was  not  the  timid 
little  bird  he  had  thought,  and  directly  they  had  sunk 
into  the  heather  he  seized  her  in  his  arms,  and  began 
kissing  her  violently  on  neck  and  lips. 

Caro  was  frightened,  horrified — she  broke  free,  and 
scrambled  to  her  feet.  She  nearly  wept,  and  it  was 
clear  even  to  his  muddled  brain  that  her  invitation  had 
been  merely  the  result  of  innocence  more  profound 
than  that  which  had  stimulated  her  shyness.  Rough 
seaman  though  he  was,  he  was  touched,  and  managed 
to  soothe  her,  for  she  was  too  bashful  and  frightened  to 
be  really  indignant.  They  walked  a  few  yards  further 
along  the  path,  then  at  her  request  turned  back  towards 
Odiam. 

They  parted  uneasily,  without  any  arrangement  to 
meet  again. 


STRUGGLING    UP  343 


§4- 

For  the  first  few  hours  of  her  sleepless  night,  Caro's 
happiness  outweighed  her  regret.  Her  mind  sucked  her 
little  experience  like  a  sugar-plum  and  filled  her  thoughts 
with  sweetness.  She  lived  over  the  adventure  from  its 
birth  in  a  song  on  Boarzell  to  its  consummation  in  the 
blessedness  of  a  kiss.  Afterwards  it  became  a  little 
smudged,  a  little  terrifying,  and  the  end  had  not  been  in 
keeping  with  the  beginning.  None  the  less,  the  fact 
remained  that  she  had  been  kissed,  that  she  had  tasted 
at  last  of  the  glories  of  love,  felt  the  touch  of  a  man's 
lips,  of  his  arm  about  her  .  .  .  she  was  no  longer  with- 
out knowledge ;  when  other  women  spoke  of  these 
things,  an  answering  thrill  would  creep  into  her  heart, 
and  words  of  experience  to  her  tongue. 

Then  she  asked  herself — would  he  come  again  ?  Her 
joy  seemed  almost  too  divine  to  be  renewed,  she  could 
hardly  picture  such  a  profanity  as  its  repetition.  Yet 
as  the  night  wore  on,  the  question  began  to  loom 
larger  than  all  her  blessed  certainties — and  with  it  came 
a  growing  tendency  to  dwell  on  the  latter  part  of  her 
experience,  on  the  awkward  aloofness  of  the  walk  home, 
and  the  uneasy  parting  at  the  gate.  It  struck  her  that 
she  had  been  a  fool  to  take  fright  at  his  violence.  After 
all,  if  he  loved  her  so  much  ...  it  was  wonderful  how 
quickly  he  had  fallen  in  love,  and  quick  things  are  more 
apt  to  be  violent  than  slow  ones.  Besides,  men  were 
inclined  to  be  rough  and  fierce  by  nature.  Thus  she 
reassured  and  reproached  herself.  Perhaps  she  had 
driven  him  away,  perhaps  her  timidity  had  made  him 
doubt  her  love.  Perhaps  she  had  been  too  squeamish. 
After  all  ... 

She  rose  the  next  morning  with  a  bad  headache  and 
her  eyes  staring  rather  plaintively  out  of  black  saucers. 
None  the  less  she  was  happy,  even  in  spite  of  her 


344  SUSSEX    GORSE 

regrets.  She  loved  and  had  been  loved,  so  she  told 
herself  over  and  over  again  as  she  dressed  David  and 
Bill  and  prepared  the  breakfast.  Why,  even  if,  when  he 
got  home,  Joe  Dansay  discovered  that  he  did  not  really 
love  her,  she  would  still  have  had  his  love,  and  as  for 
herself,  she  would  go  on  loving  him  for  ever — "  for  ever 
and  ever  and  ever/'  she  repeated  in  a  low,  trembling 
voice  as  she  cut  her  father's  bacon. 

During  the  rest  of  the  day  it  was  the  same — she  moved 
in  a  kind  of  exalted  dream.  The  most  common  objects 
thrilled  her,  and  gave  her  unexpected  tokens  of  divinity. 
Her  work  was  consuming,  her  leisure  beatific.  The 
children  loved  her,  for  that  day  she  could  do  what  she 
had  never  done  properly  to  their  mind,  and  that  is — 
play  ;  while  with  Harry,  dribbling  and  muttering,  she 
was  tender,  as  no  one  but  Naomi  had  been. 

Towards  evening  uneasiness  sprang  up  again,  with  the 
old  question — would  he  return  ?  She  told  herself  that 
if  he  did,  she  would  not  hold  back,  she  would  not  let  her 
inexperience  and  timidity  rob  her  or  him  of  their  love. 
She  would  let  him  kiss  her  as  he  pleased — love  was  too 
good  a  thing  to  risk  for  a  few  qualms.  But  would  he 
come  ? — would  he  give  her  the  chance  of  reparation  ? 
The  sun  dipped  behind  Castweasel,  the  hot  sky  cooled 
into  a  limpid  green — stars  specked  it  in  the  north,  and 
the  moon  came  up  behind  Iden  Woods,  huge  and  dim. 

Caro  ran  out  once  or  twice  into  the  garden  ;  the 
flowers  hung  pale  and  stirless  on  their  stems,  and  from 
the  orchard,  full  of  the  babble  of  a  hidden  wind,  came 
a  faint  scent  of  plums.  The  old  walls  of  Odiam  seemed 
to  smell  of  the  sunshine  they  had  caught  and  held 
during  the  day.  The  gable-ends  broke  into  the  stars, 
and  the  windows  gleamed  in  the  yellowing  light  of  the 
moon.  Up  towards  the  south  the  mass  of  Boarzell  rose 
hullish  and  deserted — far  away  at  Ellenwhorne  a  dog 
was  barking,  but  all  else  was  still. 


STRUGGLING    UP  345 


§5- 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Joe  Dansay  had  got  drunk 
at  Willie  Tailleur's  wedding.  The  fact  was  cruelly 
emphasised  by  the  headache  with  which  he  woke  up 
the  next  morning.  He  thought  it  very  hard  luck,  for 
after  all,  he  had  not  got  nearly  so  drunk  as  he  might 
have,  as  he  often  had.  However,  he  had  been  forced 
into  abstinence  by  a  long  voyage  from  Sierra  Leone,  and 
put  down  his  sufferings  to  nature's  mutiny  at  such  an 
unwholesome  state  of  affairs. 

At  present  he  lodged  with  some  relations  in  Watchbell 
Street,  and  round  him  were  all  the  Dansays  and  Tailleurs 
and  Espinettes  and  Perrots,  the  Rye  fisher  tribe,  of 
French  origin — which  was  still  traceable  in  their  names, 
in  their  brown  eyes,  and  the  sensitiveness  of  their 
mouths.  He  nearly  always  went  to  his  people  between 
voyages,  for  the  Rye  girls  took  his  fancy.  There  was  at 
this  moment  a  charmer  in  Wish  Ward  on  whom  a  good 
part  of  his  pay  had  already  been  spent.  Sometimes  he 
went  out  in  his  uncle  Bob  Dansay's  fishing  boat,  for  he 
was  not  above  handling  a  net  between  his  ventures  on 
the  high  seas. 

He  mumbled  curses  as  he  dressed,  and  bathed  his 
head  in  cold  water.  He  did  not  deserve  this  visitation — 
usually  he  regarded  an  after-debauch  headache  as  one 
of  the  marvellous  acts  of  Providence,  in  which  he,  like 
most  sailormen,  believed  with  a  faith  which  though 
conveniently  removed  from  works  was  deeply  tinged 
with  admiration.  But  yesterday  he  had  not  been  really 
drunk — why,  he  could  remember  nearly  everything  that 
had  happened,  the  dancing,  the  songs,  the  girls,  how  he 
had  walked  home  singing  "  Rio  Bay/'  and  how  he  had 
met  that  queer  girl  at  the  farmhouse  gate,  and  thought 
he  was  going  to  have  some  fun  with  her  and  been 
disappointed. 


S46  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Though  he  had  spent,  on  and  off,  some  years  in  Rye, 
he  had  seen  very  little  of  the  surrounding  country,  and 
did  not  know  that  Odiam  was  the  farm  of  his  adventure. 
Caro  had  told  him  her  name,  and  he  had  heard  of  Ben 
Backfield,  but  did  not  remember  much  about  him.  The 
episode  did  not  affect  him  very  deeply.  At  dinner  he 
asked  his  aunt  the  name  of  Backfield' s  farm,  and  forgot 
it  as  he  walked  down  Wish  Ward  that  evening,  wearing 
his  best  guernsey  and  breeches,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  his  earrings  glittering  in  the 
forest  of  his  hair. 

His  headache  had  passed  off,  and  he  felt  a  man  again  ; 
so  he  sought  the  woman.  She  lived  in  a  small  old  house 
wedged  tight  between  two  new  ones ;  her  window  was 
dark,  and  her  threshold  silent,  though  he  knocked  again 
and  again.  He  walked  up  and  down  once  or  twice  in 
front  of  the  cottage  whistling  "  Ropes  and  Rum  " — 
perhaps  she  had  gone  to  do  some  shopping  ;  he  saw  him- 
self sitting  down  to  a  feast  of  pickled  herrings  in  her 
kitchen. 

Then  when  he  was  about  a  hundred  feet  from  the 
house  the  door  opened  stealthily  and  a  man  slunk  out. 
The  gleam  of  a  street  lamp  passed  over  his  face,  and 
Dansay  rushed  at  him  with  his  fists  up. 

The  story  of  Joe  Dansay  has  nothing  to  do  with  us 
except  so  far  as  it  affects  Caro  Backfield,  so  there  will 
be  no  digression  to  explain  why  he  and  Albert  Cock 
fought  each  other  up  and  down  Wish  Ward  till  the 
police  came  running  up  and  hauled  them  off  to  gaol. 
The  next  morning  he  came  before  the  magistrate,  and 
was  fined  ten  shillings  and  costs  or  fourteen  days.  He 
was  able  to  find  the  money,  but  it  was  not  the  fine 
which  made  him  drag  his  footsteps  and  hang  his  head 
as  he  walked  home,  it  was  the  sight  of  his  victim  of 
the  night  before  leaving  the  court  arm-in-arm  with  a 
certain  pretty  witness. 

Evening  came,  the  dusk  fell,  stars  floated  up  out  of 


STRUGGLING    UP  84? 

the  mists  that  piled  themselves  along  the  shore,  the  bleat 
of  sheep  came  from  the  marsh,  and  the  eye  of  Dungeness 
Lighthouse  flashed  off  the  Point  into  the  fogs.  Inland 
the  country  was  wrapt  in  a  tender  haze,  perfumed  with 
hops  and  harvest.  The  moon  rose  above  the  Five  water- 
ing, and  bronzed  the  dark  masses  of  wood  huddling 
northward.  The  scented  wind  seemed  to  sigh  to  him 
of  a  woman's  hair  and  lips,  of  the  softness  of  a  woman's 
hand  in  his,  of  her  silly  little  voice  talking  love  and 
nonsense.  But  the  house  in  Wish  Ward  was  shut  to 
him — perfidious  woman  had  added  yet  another  perfidy 
to  her  score.  For  about  the  twentieth  time  his  love 
dream  had  been  shattered.  Now  she  was  eating  pickled 
herrings  with  another  man. 

A  kind  of  defiance,  a  kind  of  swagger  possessed  him. 
He  would  show  her  and  himself  how  little  he  cared.  He 
would  find  another  woman  this  very  night.  He  re- 
membered the  dark-browed,  demure  little  thing  of  the 
farmhouse  gate.  He  would  go  back  to  her,  and  she 
would  not  be  so  timid  this  time — they  never  were. 

§6. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  wur  never  coming  back." 
She  murmured  it  over  and  over  again  as  he  kissed  her, 
and  she  clung  to  him  like  a  child.  There  was  something 
about  her  words  and  about  herself  as  she  quivered  in  his 
arms  that  touched  him  inexpressibly.  He  swore  that  he 
loved  her,  and  forgot  all  about  the  woman  in  Wish 
Ward. 

That  evening  Caro  remembered  her  own  counsels  and 
did  not  draw  back  from  his  love.  She  let  him  kiss  her 
as  much  as  he  chose,  though  he  saw  with  amusement 
that  he  frightened  her  sometimes.  They  wandered  on 
Boarzell  through  webs  of  star-fretted  mist,  they  drank 
the  night  together,  and  sacramental  silences.  It  was 
only  when  she  realised  that  her  father  would  be  shutting 


348  SUSSEX    GORSE 

up  the  house  that  Caro  was  able  to  tear  herself  away, 
and  this  time  they  parted  with  many  kisses  and  vows  to 
meet  again. 

He  came  nearly  every  night.  If  she  was  not  at  the 
gate  he  would  wrhistle  a  few  bars  of  "  Rio  Bay/'  and  she 
would  steal  out  as  soon  as  she  could  do  so  without 
rousing  suspicion.  Boarzell  became  theirs,  their 
accomplice  in  some  subtle,  beautiful  way.  There  was  a 
little  hollow  on  the  western  slope  where  they  would 
crouch  together  and  sniff  the  apricot  scent  of  the  gorse, 
which  was  ever  afterwards  to  be  the  remembrancer 
of  their  love,  and  watch  the  farmhouse  lights 
at  Castweasel  gleam  and  gutter  beside  Ramstile 
woods. 

Sometimes  he  would  talk  to  her  of  the  strange  voyages 
he  had  made — how  he  had  lived  on  ships  ever  since  he 
was  a  boy  of  twelve,  and  had  seen  nearly  the  whole 
world,  from  the  fiery  steaming  forests  of  Equador  to  the 
Northern  Lights  that  make  a  mock  day  in  Spitzbergen. 
He  told  her  strange  tales  of  wooded  atolls  in  the  South 
Seas,  painting  a  fairyland  she  had  scarcely  dreamed,  of 
palms  motionless  in  the  aromatic  air,  of  pink  and  white 
shores,  and  lagoons  full  of  fish  all  winged  and  frilled 
and  iridescent — of  the  sudden  swift  sunrises  and 
sunsets  between  Cancer  and  Capricorn,  of  the  great 
ice-wall  in  the  south,  below  Tasmania,  which  he  had 
longed  to  penetrate,  for  who  knew  what  lay  beyond  it  in 
the  Unknown  ?  "  And  there's  another  like  it  what  Fve 
seen  from  Franz  Josef  Land — maybe  there's  countries 
beyond  it,  with  gold."  Then  he  told  her  of  the  terrible 
storms  south  of  the  Horn,  of  the  uncharted  Nelson 
Strait — of  northern  Baffin  Land,  where  he  had  once  gone 
on  a  whaler,  of  Rio  Grande  and  the  buried  city  of 
Tenoctitlan — "  where  there's  gold."  Gold  seemed  to  be 
hidden  in  large  quantities  all  over  the  world  according  to 
Dansay,  and  Caro  once  asked  him  why  he  had  never 
brought  any  back.  "  Because  I  love  what's  better  than 


STRUGGLING    UP  349 

gold/'  he  answered,  and  drew  her,  happy  and  quivering, 
into  his  arms. 

She  became  inexpressibly  dear  to  him  during  those 
meetings.  Her  timidity  and  innocence  charmed  him  so 
completely  that  he  preserved  them  longer  than  he  had 
at  first  felt  inclined  to  do.  His  vanity  was  tickled  to 
think  that  though  she  was  past  thirty  he  was  the  first 
man  who  had  kissed  her.  She  was  not  bad-looking, 
either,  with  her  straight  black  brows  and  huge  eyes — in 
spite  of  toil  she  did  not  look  her  years,  and  during  the 
weeks  of  his  courtship  she  seemed  to  grow  younger  and 
prettier,  she  grew  daintier.  Yet  she  largely  retained  the 
qualities  that  had  first  attracted  him,  her  admiration  for 
him  was  unbounded  and  guilelessly  expressed — she 
would  listen  in  tender  reverence  to  his  yarns,  and 
received  his  caresses  with  a  humble  gratitude  that  went 
straight  to  his  heart. 

As  for  Caro,  life  was  a  rainbow  dream.  The  hardships 
of  the  day  were  gladly  lived  through  in  expectation  of 
the  joys  of  the  evening.  She  felt  very  few  qualms  of 
conscience,  even  when  the  barrier  was  past  which  she 
had  thought  impassable.  Somehow  love  seemed  to  alter 
her  whole  point  of  view,  or  rather  stripped  her  of  one 
altogether — after  all,  her  point  of  view  had  never  been 
more  than  the  acceptance  of  other  people's.  Besides, 
there  were  things  in  love  that  she  had  never  guessed ; 
nobody  had  ever  done  anything  to  make  her  realise  that 
there  was  beauty  in  it — Rose's  flirtations,  her  father's 
jealous  passion  had  never  suggested  such  a  thing.  But 
now  her  life  was  brimmed  with  beauty,  unimaginable 
beauty  that  welled  up  into  the  commonest  things  and 
suffused  them  with  light.  Also,  about  it  all  was  that 
surprising  sense  of  naturalness^  which  almost  always 
comes  to  women  when  they  love  for  the  first  time,  the 
feeling  of  "  For  this  I  was  born." 

Sometimes  she  would  have  anxious  moments,  a 
strange  sense  of  fear.  "  I'm  a  bad  woman,"  she  would 


350  SUSSEX    GORSE 

repeat  to  herself,  and  she  would  dread  the  thought  of 
her  sister  Tilly.  But  the  terrors  did  not  last,  they  were 
driven  away  by  the  remembrance  of  what  her  life  had 
been  before  she  met  Joe — its  drabness,  its  aimless  toil, 
its  lassitude,  its  humiliations.  She  would  have  been  a 
fool  to  spurn  her  golden  chance  when  it  came.  It  had 
been  her  only  chance  ;  after  all  it  was  not  as  if  she  ever 
could  have  married.  She  had  had  to  choose  between  the 
life  she  had  led  up  to  that  August  evening  and  the  life 
she  was  leading  now,  and  she  could  not  regret  her  choice. 

She  never  asked  Dansay  to  marry  her.  He  had  given 
her  pretty  dearly  to  understand  that  he  was  not  a 
marrying  man,  and  she  was  terrified  of  doing  or  saying 
anything  that  might  turn  him  against  her.  One  of  the 
things  about  her  that  charmed  him  most  was  the 
absence  of  all  demand  upon  him.  She  never  asked  for 
presents,  and  the  few  things  he  bought  her  stimulated 
both  her  humble  gratitude  and  her  alarm  lest  he  should 
have  spent  too  much  money.  One  day  he  suggested 
that  he  should  take  her  to  Boarzell  Fair. 

"  Oh,  Joe,  would  you  really  !  " 

"  Of  course,  if  you  can  manage  it  without  us  being 
spotted." 

"  I  reckon  I  cud,  for  faather  aun't  going  this  year, 
he's  got  an  auction  at  Appledore." 

"  Then  you  come  along  ;  I'll  take  you,  and  we'll  have 
some  fun." 

"  But  I  doan't  want  you  to  waste  your  money." 

"  It  won't  be  wasting  it.  Why,  Lord  love  ye,  I'd 
rather  spend  it  on  you  than  anything  in  the  world." 

Her  look  of  surprise  and  adoration  was  his  reward. 

§7- 

Boarzell  Fair  was  in  many  ways  a  mark  of  the  passage 
of  the  years  and  a  commentary  on  history.  Not  only 
did  the  atmosphere  and  persons  of  it  change  very  much 


STRUGGLING    UP  351 

as  the  nineteenth  century  changed,  but  the  side-shows 
were  so  many  lights  cast  on  popular  opinion,  politics, 
and  progress. 

For  instance,  in  the  year  1878,  the  Panorama  which 
had  started  with  the  Battle  of  Trafalgar  and  the  Royal 
Gardens  of  Vauxhall,  now  gave  thrilling  if  belated 
episodes  of  the  Siege  of  Paris,  and  a  gorgeous  picture  of 
the  Queen  being  declared  Empress  of  India  at  Delhi. 
The  merry-go  round  not  only  went  by  steam,  but  was 
accompanied  by  a  steam  organ  playing  "  The  Swell 
(Commercial "  and  "  Married  to  a  Mermaid  "  unfalter- 
ingly from  noon  till  night.  In  the  shooting  gallery  men 
potted  Mr.  Gladstone,  Mr.  Dillon,  and  Charles  Peace, 
instead  of  the  Russian  Czar  or  Nana  Sahib  of  their 
youth,  or  the  hated  Boney  of  their  fathers.  It  all  moved 
with  the  times,  and  yet  remained  four  or  five  years 
behind  them.  One  came  in  contact  with  movements 
which  had  just  ebbed  from  the  country,  waves  that  had 
rolled  back  everywhere  except  in  these  lonely  rural 
districts  where  interests  and  hatreds  came  later  and 
lingered  longer  than  in  more  accessible  parts. 

The  population  had  altered  too.  Old  Gideon  Teazel 
had  died  some  years  ago,  and  his  son  Jasper  was  boss  in 
his  place.  He  was  unlike  his  father  both  in  character 
and  physique,  an  undersized  little  ruffian,  seasoned  by 
a  long  career  in  horse-stealing,  who  beat  his  wife  openly 
on  the  caravan  steps,  and  boasted  that  he  had  landed 
more  flats  at  thimble-rig  than  any  thimble-engro  in 
England.  He  would  have  cheated  the  shirt  off  any  man 
at  the  Show,  and  established  a  sort  of  ascendancy  through 
sheer  dread  of  his  cunning.  The  only  man  who  did  not 
fear  him  was  Mexico  Bill,  a  half-breed  hi  charge  of  the 
cocoanut  shie.  Mexico  Bill  feared  only  the  man  who 
could  knock  him  out,  and  that  man  had  not  yet  been 
found  in  Boarzell  Fair.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was 
usually  pretty  genial  and  docile,  but  he  had  been 
wounded  in  the  head  by  Indians  long  ago,  and  some- 


352  SUSSEX    GORSE 

times  went  mad  and  ran  amok..  On  these  occasions 
the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  trip  him  up,  and  enrol  as 
many  volunteers  as  possible  to  sit  on  him  till  he  came 
to  his  senses. 

There  was  no  longer  any  fiddler  at  the  Fair.  Harry 
Backfield's  successor  had  been  a  hurdy-gurdy  which 
played  dance  music  louder  and  more  untiringly  than 
any  human  arm  could  do.  Dancing  was  still  a  vital 
part  of  the  festivities,  but  it  was  more  decorous  than 
in  the  days  when  Reuben  and  Naomi  had  danced 
together  to  the  tune  of  "  Seth's  House,"  or  Robert  and 
Bessie  to  "  My  Decided  Decision."  Only  in  the  evening 
it  became  rowdy,  when  the  sun  had  set  and  the  mists 
had  walled  in  the  Show  with  nacreous  battlements. 

Joe  and  Caro  joined  the  dancers  on  their  arrival.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Caro  had  danced  at 
the  Fair,  and  the  experience  thrilled  her  as  wonderfully 
as  if  it  had  not  been  just  a  link  in  the  chain  of  a  hundred 
new  experiences.  The  hurdy-gurdy  was  playing  "  See 
me  Dance  the  Polka/'  and  off  they  skipped,  to  steps  of 
their  own,  betraying  in  Dansay's  case  a  hornpipe  origin. 

She  saw  people  that  she  knew,  but  had  no  fear  of 
betrayal,  unless  from  Pete,  who  was,  however,  safe  in 
the  fighting-booth,  now  conveniently  banished  by 
public  opinion  to  the  outskirts  of  the  Fair.  Pete  would 
"  tell  on  "  her,  she  knew,  but  no  one  else  cared  enough 
for  Reuben  to  betray  his  daughter  to  him.  She  looked 
with  kindly  eyes  on  all  the  world  as  her  accomplice— 
that  all  the  world  loves  a  lover  is  primarily  the  lover's 
point  of  view. 

Besides,  she  was  lost  in  the  crowd  which  jigged  and 
clumped  around  her,  not  even  daunted  by  the  un- 
familiar waltz  that  the  hurdy-gurdy  struck  up  next. 
Nobody,  except  fanatics,  bothered  about  steps,  so  one 
could  dance  to  any  tune. 

In  time  Caro  grew  tired,  and  they  wandered  off  to 
the  shooting-gallery  and  the  merry-go-round.  They 


STRUGGLING    UP  353 

patronised  the  cocoanut  shie,  and  won  a  gilt  saucer  at 
the  hoop-la  stall.  In  the  gipsy's  tent  Caro  was  told  that 
she  would  ride  in  a  carriage  with  a  lord,  and  have  six 
fine  children,  all  boys,  while  Dansay  was  promised  such 
wealth  that  he  would  be  able  to  throw  gold  to  crossing- 
sweepers.  They  sat  in  the  Panorama  till  it  stuck  fast 
at  a  gorgeous  tableau  of  Britannia  ruling  the  waves 
from  what  looked  like  a  bath  chair.  Joe  bought  Caro  a 
pie  at  the  refreshment  stall,  and  himself  ate  many  beef 
rolls.  She  was  overwhelmed  by  the  lavish  way  he 
spent  his  money,  and  quite  relieved  for  his  sake  when 
they  went  back  to  the  dancing  green. 

The  day  had  slipped  by,  and  twilight  was  settling 
down  on  the  Fair.  The  stalls  flared  up,  a  red  glow 
streamed  into  the  sky,  and  patched  the  shagginess  of 
Boarzell's  firs  with  crimson  shreds.  The  dancing  had 
become  more  disorderly,  the  decent  folk  had  retired,  and 
left  the  madder  element  to  its  revels.  The  mass  of  the 
dancers  was  blurred,  confused  in  the  grey  smeeth.  It 
seemed  to  invite  Joe  and  Caro,  for  now  in  the  thick  of  it 
one  could  give  and  take  surreptitious  kisses  ;  some  of 
the  kisses  were  not  even  surreptitious — the  love-making 
was  becoming  nearly  as  open  as  in  the  days  when 
Reuben  and  Naomi  had  danced  together.  Caro  was  no 
longer  shocked  at  the  "  goings-on/'  which  had  used  to 
scandalise  her  in  earlier  years  when  she  knew  them 
scarcely  more  than  by  hearsay.  Her  very  innocence 
had  made  her  easier  to  corrupt,  and  she  now  joined  in 
the  revel  with  a  delight  scarcely  less  abandoned,  if  more 
naive,  than  that  of  the  cottage  wantons  who  bumped 
round  her.  It  was  all  so  new,  and  yet  so  natural,  this 
kicking  and  capering  to  a  jigging  tune.  Who  would  have 
imagined  that  the  lonely  bitter  Caro,  enviously  watching 
the  fun  in  earlier  years,  should  now  have  both  a  partner 
and  a  lover  ?  She  laughed  like  a  child  at  the  thought. 

Then  suddenly  her  laughter  died ;  her  expression 
became  fixed,  and  she  swayed  a  little  in  Joe's  arms,  as 


354  SUSSEX    GORSE 

she  stared  into  the  crowd  of  spectators.  They  were  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  dancers,  and  quite  close  to  them 
stood  Pete.  He  had  come  out  of  the  fighting-booth, 
still  in  his  bruiser's  dressing-gown,  evidently  to  watch 
the  fun.  He  was  looking  straight  at  Caro  as  she  danced 
dishevelle_d,  and  both  he  and  Dansay  knew  that  he  had 
recognised  her.  They  saw  his  lips  tighten,  and  an 
angry  look  came  on  his  face  which  his  profession 
had  not  made  more  benevolent  than  Nature  in- 
tended. 

"  Quick/'  muttered  Joe,  and  he  guided  her  cleverly 
enough  through  the  pack  of  dancers,  leading  her  out  on 
the  opposite  side. 

"  Oh,  Joe,  he's  seen  us." 

Dansay  bit  his  lip — he  was  afraid  so. 

Caro  began  to  cry. 

"  My  faather  will  kill  me,  surelye." 

She  knew  for  certain  that  Pete  would  tell  him,  and 
then  almost  quite  as  certainly  she  would  lose  the  adven- 
ture which  had  become  life  itself  to  her.  She  would  be 
driven  back  into  the  old  prison,  the  old  loneliness,  the 
old  despair.  She  clung  to  Dansay,  weeping  and  frantic  : 

"  Oh,  Joe — doan't  let  them  find  me.  I  can't  lose  you 
— I  woan't  lose  you — I  love  you  so." 

He  was  leading  her  away  from  the  people,  to  the 
back  of  the  stalls.  He  was  nearly  as  miserable  and 
aghast  as  she.  For  he  had  become  extraordinarily  fond 
of  her  during  those  few  weeks,  and  the  thought  of  losing 
her  turned  him  cold.  He  had  been  a  fool  to  bring  her 
to  the  Fair. 

"  You  must  come  away  with  me,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"  Oh,  Joe  !  " 

It  was  a  bold  step,  but  he  saw  that  none  other  would 
serve,  and  he  realised  that  she  was  not  the  kind  of 
woman  to  take  advantage  of  him  and  make  herself  a 
permanent  encumbrance. 

"  Yes — there's  nothing  for  it  but  that.     We'll  go 


STRUGGLING    UP  355 

down  and  stay  at  the  Camber.  You'll  be  safe  with  me, 
and  I've  got  a  little  money  put  by/' 

Considering  how  much  she  had  already  given  him,  it 
was  perhaps  strange  that  she  shuddered  a  little  at  this 
open  venture. 

"  You'll  be  good  to  me,  Joe  !  " 

"  Won't  I,  just !  " 

Something  in  the  wistfulness  and  humility  of  her 
appeal  had  touched  him  to  the  heart ;  he  clasped  her  to 
him  with  a  passion  for  once  free  from  roughness,  and 
for  one  moment  at  least  had  every  intention  of  sticking 
to  her  for  ever. 


It  was  not  from  Pete  that  Reuben  first  heard  of  his 
daughter's  goings-on.  Caro's  benevolent  trust  in 
humanity  had  been  misplaced,  and  at  the  Seven  Bells 
where  he  called  for  a  refresher  on  arriving  at  Rye 
station,  various  stragglers  from  Boarzell  eagerly  be- 
trayed her,  "  just  to  see  how  he  wud  taake  it." 

Reuben  received  the  news  with  the  indifference  due 
to  outsiders.  But  he  was  not  so  calm  when  Pete  told  his 
tale  at  Odiam. 

"  The  bitch,"  he  growled,  "  I'll  learn  her.  Dancing 
wud  a  sailor,  you  say  she  wur,  Pete  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Pete,  "  and  wud  her  hair  all  tumbling." 

"  I'll  learn  her,"  repeated  Reuben.  But  he  never 
had  the  chance.  By  the  time  the  two  males  had  sat  up 
till  about  three  or  four  the  next  morning,  they  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  Caro  must  have  seen  Pete  watching 
her  and  run  away. 

"  She'll  never  come  back,"  said  Pete  that  evening — 
"  you  taake  my  word  fur  it." 

"  That's  another  of  my  daughters  gone  fur  a  whore." 

"  Who  wur  the  fust  ?  " 

"  Why  Tilly — goes  off  wud  that  lousy  pig-keeper  up 
at  Grandturzel.  She's  no  better  than  Caro." 


356  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  And  there  wur  Rose/'  added  Pete,  anxious  to 
supply  instances. 

Reuben  swore  at  him. 

He  felt  Caro's  disappearance  more  acutely  than  he 
would  allow  to  show.  First,  she  had  left  him  badly  in 
the  lurch  in  household  matters — he  had  to  engage  a 
woman  to  take  her  place,  and  pay  her  wages.  Also  she 
had  caused  a  scandal  in  the  neighbourhood,  which  meant 
more  derisive  fingers  pointed  at  Odiam.  Pete  was  now 
the  only  one  left  of  his  original  family — his  children  and 
their  runnings-away  had  become  a  byword  in  Peas- 
marsh. 

In  the  course  of  time  he  heard  that  Caro  was  living 
with  Joe  Dansay  down  at  the  Camber,  but  he  made  no 
effort  to  bring  her  back.  "  I'm  shut  of  her/'  he  told 
everyone  angrily.  If  Caro  preferred  a  common  sailor  and 
loose  living  to  the  dignity  and  usefulness  of  her  position 
at  Odiam,  he  was  not  going  to  interfere.  Besides,  she 
had  disgraced  his  farm,  and  he  would  never  forgive 
that. 

It  struck  him  that  his  relations  with  women  had  been 
singularly  unfortunate.  Caro,  Tilly,  Rose,  Alice,  had 
all  been  failures — indeed  he  had  come  to  look  back  on 
Naomi  as  his  only  success.  Women  were  all  the  same, 
without  ambition,  without  self-respect,  ready  to  lick 
the  boots  of  the  first  person  who  stroked  them  and  was 
silly  enough  not  to  see  through  their  wiles. 

During  those  days  he  spent  most  of  his  time  digging 
on  Boarzell.  It  relieved  him  to  thrust  viciously  into  the 
red  dripping  clay,  turn  in  on  his  spade,  and  fling  it  back 
over  his  shoulder.  It  was  strange  that  so  few  men 
realised  that  work  was  better  than  women — stranger 
still  that  they  did  not  realise  how  much  better  than  a 
woman's  beauty  was  the  beauty  of  the  earth.  Toiling 
there  on  the  Moor,  Reuben's  heart  gave  itself  more  utterly 
to  its  allegiance.  The  curves  of  Boarzell  against  the  sky, 
its  tuft  of  firs,  its  hummocked  slopes,  its  wet  life-smelling 


STRUGGLING    UP  357 

earth,  even  its  savagery  of  heather,  gorse,  and  thorn 
brought  healing  to  his  heart,  and  strength.  Caro  and 
other  women  could  do  what  they  chose,  love,  hate, 
follow,  cheat,  and  betray  whom  they  chose,  as  long  as 
they  left  him  the  red  earth  and  the  labour  of  his  hands. 


Early  the  next  year  Reuben  heard  that  Caro  and  her 
lover  had  left  Camber,  and  gone  no  one  knew  where, 
but  by  that  time  the  elapse  of  months  had  dulled  his 
feelings  on  the  matter,  and  Caro,  never  very  important 
in  herself,  was  buried  under  the  concerns  of  his  farm. 

Odiam,  after  superhuman  efforts,  was  looking  up 
again.  Years  of  steady  work  and  strenuous  economy  had 
restored  it  to  something  like  its  former  greatness.  Reuben 
was  no  longer  hampered  by  an  extravagant  wife,  and 
he  also  had  the  advantage  of  a  clear  field.  For  at  last 
Grandturzel  had  given  up  the  battle.  Realf  and  Tilly 
were  now  the  parents  of  four  healthy,  growing,  hungry 
children,  and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  domestic 
happiness  was  better  than  agricultural  triumph.  They 
were  contented  with  their  position  on  a  farm  of  con- 
siderable importance  and  fair  prosperity.  They  took 
no  risks,  but  lived  happily  with  each  other  and  their 
children,  satisfied  that  they  could  comfortably  rear  and 
educate  their  little  family,  and  leave  ifc  an  inheritance 
which,  if  not  dazzling,  was  not  to  be  despised. 

This  was  an  infinite  relief  to  Reuben.  He  was  now 
no  longer  under  the  continual  necessity  of  going  one 
better  than  somebody  else — he  could  rebuild  along  his 
own  lines,  and  economise  in  the  way  he  chose.  However, 
this  very  convenient  behaviour  of  Grandturzel  did 
nothing  to  soften  his  resentment.  Tilly  and  Realf 
were,  and  were  always  to  be,  unforgiven.  Sometimes 
he  could  see  that  they  seemed  inclined  to  be  friendly 
— Realf  would  touch  his  hat  to  him  if  they  met,  and 


358  SUSSEX    GORSE 

perhaps  Tilly  would  smile — but  Reuben  was  not  to  be 
won  by  such  treacly  tactics.  It  was  largely  owing  to 
the  rivalry  of  Grandturzel  that  ruin  had  nearly  swallowed 
him  up  four  years  ago — and  he  would  never  be  weak 
enough  to  forget  it. 

Meantime  it  was  soothing  to  contemplate  the  result 
of  his  efforts.  After  all,  his  own  striving  had  done  more 
for  him  than  any  slackness  or  grass-fed  contentment  on 
the  part  of  Grandturzel.  His  greatest  achievement  was 
the  paying  off  of  his  mortgage,  which  he  managed 
in  the  spring  of  '79.  Now  he  could  once  more  begin 
saving  money  to  buy  another  piece  of  Boarzell.  There 
was  something  both  novel  and  exhilarating  about  this 
return  to  old  ways.  It  was  over  ten  years  since  he  had 
bought  any  land,  but  now  were  renewed  all  the  ticklish 
delights  of  calculation,  all  the  plannings  and  layings- 
out,  all  the  contrivances  and  scrapings  and  wrestlings. 

There  were  still  about  two  hundred  acres  to  acquire, 
including  the  Grandturzel  inclosure,  on  which,  however, 
he  looked  more  hopefully  than  of  old.  He  had  so  far 
subdued  not  more  than  about  a  hundred  and  forty 
acres — most  of  the  northern  slope  of  Boarzell  adjoining 
Odiam  and  Totease,  and  also  a  small  tract  on  the 
Flightshot  side.  This  was  not  very  encouraging,  for 
it  represented  the  labours  of  two-thirds  of  a  lifetime, 
and  at  the  same  time  left  him  with  more  than  half  his 
task  still  unaccomplished.  If  it  had  not  been  for  his 
setback  ten  years  ago  he  would  now  probably  have 
over  two  hundred  and  fifty  acres  to  his  credit.  But 
he  told  himself  that  he  would  progress  more  quickly 
now.  Also,  though  he  had  not  enlarged  his  boundaries 
during  the  last  ten  years,  he  had  considerably  improved 
the  quality  of  the  land  within  them.  The  first  acquired 
parts  of  Boarzell  were  nearly  as  fruitful  and  richly 
cultivated  as  the  original  lands  of  the  farm,  and  even 
the  '68  ground  was  showing  signs  of  coming  into  sub- 
jection. 


STRUGGLING    UP  359 

Besides,  Reuben  had  now  a  respectable  herd  of  cattle 
— not  quite  so  numerous  or  valuable  as  the  earlier  lot 
which  had  been  sacrificed,  but  none  the  less  respectable, 
and  bringing  him  in  good  returns.  He  had  made  some 
sound  profit  out  of  his  service-bull,  and  his  sheep  were 
paying  better  than  they  had  paid  for  years.  He  no  longer 
"  kept "  other  people's  cattle.  Odiam,  whether  in 
stock  or  cash,  was  now  inviolate. 

Soon  the  rumour  spread  round  Peasmarsh  that  Back- 
field  was  going  to  buy  some  more  land.  Reuben  himself 
had  started  it. 

"  He's  done  better  nor  he  desarved,"  said  Coalbran 
of  Doozes. 

"  He's  warked  fur  it  all  the  same,  surely e,"  said 
Cooper  of  Kitchenhour. 

"  He's  worked  like  the  Old  Un  fur  the  last  five  year," 
said  Dunn,  the  new  man  at  Socknersh. 

"  Well,  let's  hope  as  he's  found  it  worth  while  now  as 
he's  lost  two  wives  and  eight  children,"  was  the  sage 
comment  of  old  Vennal  of  Burntbarns. 

Then  the  conversation  wandered  from  Reuben's  suc- 
cesses to  the  price  he  had  paid  for  them,  which  proved 
more  interesting  and  more  comforting  to  those  assembled. 

At  Flightshot  the  Squire  viewed  Odiam's  recovery 
with  some  uneasiness.  It  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
him  if  he  could  sell  more  land  to  old  Backfield,  but  at 
the  same  time  his  conscience  was  restless  about  it.  Back- 
field  was  a  rapacious  old  hound,  who  forced  the  last 
ounce  of  work  out  of  his  labourers,  and  the  last  ounce 
of  money  out  of  his  tenants.  He  was  a  hard  master  and 
a  hard  landlord,  and  ought  not  to  be  encouraged.  All 
the  same,  Bardon  did  not  see  how  he  was  to  avoid  en- 
couraging him.  If  Backfield  applied  for  the  land  it 
would  be  suicidal  folly  to  refuse  to  sell  it.  He  was  in 
desperate  straits  for  money.  He  had  appealed  to  Anne, 
who  had  money  of  her  own,  but  Anne's  reply  had  been 
frigid.  She  wrote : — 


360  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  I  do  not  see  my  way  to  helping  Flightshot  while 
I  have  so  many  other  calls  upon  me.  Richard  is  still 
unsettled,  and  unable  entirely  to  support  himself.  I 
should  be  a  poor  friend  indeed  if  after  having  induced 
my  protege  to  abandon  his  home  and  rely  on  me,  I 
should  forsake  him  before  he  was  properly  established. 
Be  a  man,  Ralph,  and  refuse  to  sell  any  more  land  to 
that  greedy,  selfish,  unscrupulous  old  Backfield." 

But  Ralph  only  sighed — it  was  all  very  well  for  Anne 
to  talk  ! 

§10. 

Except  for  a  steady  maintenance  of  prosperity  by 
dint  of  hard  work,  the  year  was  uneventful.  Autumn 
passed,  and  nothing  broke  the  strenuous  monotony  of 
the  days,  not  even  news  of  the  absent  children.  Then 
came  an  evening  in  winter  when  Reuben,  Pete,  and 
Harry  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  kitchen  fire.  Reuben 
and  his  son  were  half  asleep,  Harry  was  mumbling  to 
himself  and  playing  with  a  piece  of  string. 

A  great  quiet  was  wrapped  round  the  house,  and  a 
great  darkness,  pricked  by  winking  stars.  The  barns 
were  shut,  the  steamings  of  the  midden  were  nipped 
by  brooding  frosts — now  and  then  the  dull  movements 
of  some  stalled  animal  could  be  heard,  but  only  from 
the  yard  ;  in  the  house  there  was  silence  except  for  the 
singing  fire,  and  Harry's  low  muttering  which  seldom 
rose  into  words.  Then  suddenly  there  was  a  knock  at 
the  door. 

Reuben  started,  and  Pete  awoke  noisily.  Harry  was 
frightened  and  dropped  his  string,  crying  because  he 
could  not  find  it.  The  knock  came  again,  and  this  time 
Pete  crossed  the  room  yawning,  and  opened  the  door. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  in  front  of  it,  while  the  icy 
wind  swept  into  the  room.  Then  he  dashed  back  to 
Reuben's  chair. 

"  Faather— it's  Albert  !  " 


STRUGGLING    UP  361 

Reuben  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  was  still  only  half 
awake,  and  he  rubbed  his  eyes  as  he  stared  at  the  figure 
framed  in  the  doorway.  Then  suddenly  he  pulled  him- 
self together. 

"  Come  in,  and  shut  the  door  behind  you/' 

The  figure  did  not  move.  Reuben  took  a  step  towards 
it,  and  then  it  tottered  forward,  and  to  his  horror  fell 
against  him,  almost  bearing  him  to  the  floor. 

Pete,  who  had  recovered  his  faculties  to  some  extent, 
helped  support  his  brother.  But  he  had  fainted  clean 
away,  and  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  let  him  down  as 
gently  as  possible. 

"  Lordy  !  "  said  Pete,  and  stooped  over  Albert,  his 
hands  on  his  knees. 

"  You're  sure  that's  Albert  ?  "  asked  Reuben,  though 
he  really  did  not  doubt  it  for  a  moment. 

"  Course  I  am.  That's  his  face  sure  enough,  though 
he's  as  thin  as  wire." 

"  It's  nigh  fifteen  year  since  he  went  away.  Wot 
did  he  want  to  come  back  fur  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  he's  half  starved — and  he  looks  ill  too." 

"  Well,  he's  swooneded  away,  anyhow.  Can't  you 
do  something  to  maake  him  sensible  ?  " 

"  Poor  feller,"  said  Pete,  and  scratched  his  head. 

Reuben  was  irritated  by  this  display  of  senti- 
ment. 

:<  You  needn't  go  pitying  him,  nuther — he's  a  lousy 
Radical  traitor.  You  do  something  to  maake  him  sensible 
and  out  he  goes." 

At  this  juncture  Albert  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Hullo,"  he  said  feebly. 

"  Hullo,"  said  Pete.  Something  in  his  brother's 
pitiable  condition  seemed  to  have  touched  him. 

Albert  sat  up — then  asked  for  some  water. 

Pete  fetched  a  jug,  which  he  held  awkwardly  to  Al- 
bert's lips.  Then  he  helped  him  to  a  chair,  and  began 
to  unlace  his  boots. 


362  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Stop  that/'  shouted  Reuben — "  he  aun't  to  stay 
here/' 

"  You'll  let  me  stop  the  night,"  pleaded  Albert. 
"  I'll  explain  things  when  I'm  better.  I  can't  now." 

"  You  can  go  to  the  Cocks — I  woan't  have  you  in 
my  house." 

"  But  I  haven't  got  a  penny — cleaned  myself  out  for 
my  railway  ticket.  I've  walked  all  the  way  from  the 
station,  and  my  lungs  are  bad." 

"  Wot  did  you  come  here  fur  ?  " 

"  It  struck  me  that  you  might  have  some  natural 
affection." 

"  Me  ! — fur  a  hemmed  Radical !  You'd  better  have 
saved  your  money,  young  feller — I'm  shut  of  you." 

"  If  you're  still  harping  on  my  politics,"  said  Albert 
fretfully,  "  you  needn't  worry.  Either  side  can  go  to 
the  devil,  for  all  I  care.  I  suppose  it's  natural  to  brood 
over  things  down  here,  but  in  London  one  forgets  a 
rumpus  fifteen  years  old." 

"  I'll  never  disremember  the  way  you  shamed  me  in 
'65." 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  disremember  anything.  Only  let 
me  have  supper  and  a  bed,  and  to-morrow " 

A  fit  of  coughing  interrupted  him.  He  strained  and 
shook  from  head  to  foot.  He  had  no  handkerchief,  and 
spat  blood  on  the  floor. 

"  Faather  !  "  cried  Pete,  "  you  can't  turn  him  out 
lik  this." 

"  He's  shamming,"  said  Reuben. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Albert,  who  seemed  to  have  learned 
sarcasm  in  exile — "  haemorrhage  is  so  deuced  easy  to 
sham." 

"  He's  come  back  to  git  money  out  of  me,"  said 
Reuben,  "  but  he  shan't  have  a  penny — I've  none  to 
spare." 

"  I  don't  ask  for  that  to-night — all  I  ask  is  food  and 
shelter,  same  as  you'd  give  to  a  dog." 


STRUGGLING    UP  363 

"  Well,  I'll  leave  you  to  Pete/'  said  Reuben,  and  walked 
out  of  the  room.  He  considered  this  the  more  dignified 
course,  and  went  upstairs  to  bed. 

The  brothers  were  left  alone,  except  for  Harry, 
who  was  busy  imitating  Albert's  cough,  much  to  his 
own  satisfaction. 

Pete  fetched  some  soup  from  the  larder  and  heated 
it  up  to  a  tepid  condition ;  he  also  produced  bread  and 
cold  bacon,  which  the  prodigal  could  not  touch.  Albert 
sat  hunched  up  by  the  fire,  coughing  and  shivering.  He 
had  not  altered  much  since  he  left  Odiam  ;  he  was  thin 
and  hectic,  and  had  an  unshaved  look  about  him,  also 
there  were  a  few  grey  streaks  in  his  hair — otherwise  he 
was  the  same.  His  manner  was  the  same  too,  though 
his  voice  had  changed  completely,  and  he  had  lost  his 
Sussex  accent. 

Pete  ministered  to  him  with  a  strange  devotion,  which 
he  carried  finally  to  the  pitch  of  putting  him  into  his 
own  bed.  The  absence  of  so  many  of  the  children  did 
not  make  much  more  room  in  the  house,  as  Reuben's 
ideas  on  sleeping  had  always  been  compact — also  there 
were  the  little  boys,  the  new  dairy  woman,  and  a  big 
store  of  potatoes.  Pete's  large  untidy  bed  was  the  only 
available  accommodation,  and  Albert  was  glad  of  it,  for 
he  had  reached  the  last  stage  of  exhaustion. 

"  I  bet  you  anything,"  he  said  before  he  fell  asleep, 
"  that  now  I'm  here  the  old  boy  won't  be  able  to  turn 
me  out,  however  much  he  wants  to." 

§n. 

Whether  Reuben  would  have  succeeded  or  not  is 
uncertain,  for  he  was  never  put  to  the  proof.  The  next 
day  Albert  was  feverish  and  delirious,  and  the  doctor 
had  to  be  sent  for.  He  cheerfully  gave  the  eldest  Back- 
field  three  months  to  live — his  lungs  were  in  a  dreadful 
state,  one  completely  gone,  the  other  partly  so.  He 


364  SUSSEX    GORSE 

had  caught  a  chill,  too,  walking  in  the  dark  and  cold. 
There  could  be  no  thought  of  moving  him. 

So  Albert  stayed  in  Pete's  room,  almost  entirely 
ignored  by  his  father.  After  some  consideration,  Reuben 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  this  was  the  most 
dignified  attitude  to  adopt.  Now  and  then,  when  he  was 
better,  he  sent  him  up  some  accounts  to  do,  as  it  hurt 
him  to  think  of  his  son  lying  idle  week  after  week ; 
but  he  never  went  near  him,  and  Albert  would  never 
have  willingly  crossed  his  path.  Those  were  not  the  days 
of  open  windows  and  fresh-air  cures,  so  there  was  no 
especial  reason  why  he  should  ever  leave  the  low-raftered 
stuffy  room,  where  he  would  lie  by  the  hour  in  a  frowsty 
dream  of  sickness,  broken  only  by  fits  of  coughing 
and  haemorrhage. 

His  return  had  created  a  mild  stir  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  in  Reuben's  breast,  despite  circumstances 
and  appearances,  many  thrills  of  gratification.  Albert's 
penniless  and  broken  condition  was  but  another  instance 
of  the  folly  of  those  who  deserted  Odiam.  None  of  the 
renegades,  Reuben  told  himself,  had  prospered.  Here 
was  Albert  come  home  to  die  ;  Robert,  after  a  prelude 
in  gaol,  had  exiled  himself  to  Australia,  where  the 
droughts  lasted  twenty  years  ;  Richard,  in  spite  of  study- 
ings  and  strivings  and  spendings,  had  only  an  occasional 
brief,  and  was  unable  to  support  himself  at  thirty-five  ; 
Tilly  was  living  on  a  second-rate  farm  instead  of  a  first- 
rate  one  ;  Caro  was  living  in  sin  ;  Benjamin  was  prob- 
ably not  living  at  all.  There  was  no  denying  it — they 
had  all  done  badly  away  from  Odiam. 

However,  he  refused  all  temptations  to  discuss  this 
latest  prodigal.  If  anyone  asked  him  how  his  son  was 
doing,  he  would  answer,  "  I  dunno  ;  ask  Pete — he's 
the  nurse." 

Pete's  attitude  was  Reuben's  chief  perplexity.  It  is 
true  that  in  early  years  Albert  seemed  to  have  exercised 
a  kind  of  fascination  over  his  younger  brothers  and 


STRUGGLING    UP  365 

sisters  ;  still  that  was  long  ago,  and  Pete  did  not  appear 
to  have  given  him  a  thought  in  the  interval.  But  now 
he  suddenly  developed  an  almost  maternal  devotion 
for  the  sick  and  broken  Albert.  He  would  sit  up  whole 
nights  with  him  in  spite  of  the  toils  of  the  day,  he  trod 
lumberingly  about  on  tiptoe  in  his  presence,  he  read  to 
him  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  Something  in  his  brother's 
weakness  and  misery  seemed  to  have  appealed  to  his 
clumsy  strength.  The  root  of  sentimentality  which  is 
always  more  or  less  encouraged  by  a  brutal  career  was 
quickened  in  his  heart,  and  sprouted  to  an  extent  that 
would  have  mystified  the  many  he  had  bashed.  It  per- 
plexed and  irritated  his  father.  To  see  Pete  hulking 
about  on  tiptoe,  carrying  jugs  of  water  and  cups  of 
milk,  shutting  doors  with  grotesque  precaution,  and 
perpetually  telling  someone  upstairs  in  a  voice  hoarse 
with  sympathy  that  he  "  wurn't  to  vrother,  as  he'd  be 
better  soon  " — was  a  foolish  and  maddening  spectacle. 
Also  Reuben  dreaded  that  Pete  would  scamp  his  farm 
work,  so  he  fussed  round  after  everything  he  did,  and 
called  him  from  Albert's  bedside  times  without  number 
to  hoe  turnips  or  guide  the  plough. 

However,  someone  had  to  look  after  the  invalid,  and 
Pete  might  as  well  do  it  as  anybody  else — as  long  as  he 
realised  that  his  sick-nursing  was  a  recreation,  and  not 
a  substitute  for  his  duties  on  the  farm. 

Spring  came  on,  and  Albert  grew  worse.  Pete  began 
to  look  haggard  ;  even  his  bullish  strength  was  faltering 
under  sleepless  nights,  days  of  moil  and  sweat,  and 
constant  attendance  on  the  sick  man.  The  dairy- 
women  helped  a  little,  but  what  they  did  they  did 
unwillingly ;  and  as  the  dairy  was  short-handed,  Reuben 
did  not  like  them  to  take  up  any  extra  work.  Pete's 
existence  was  a  continual  round  of  anxiety  and  con- 
trivance, and  he  was  not  used  to  either. 

There  was  also  another  depressing  factor.  As  he  felt 
his  end  approaching  Albert  began  to  develop  a  conscience 


366  SUSSEX    GORSE 

and  remorse.  He  said  he  had  wasted  his  life,  and  as 
time  wore  on  and  he  became  weaker  he  passed  from  the 
general  to  the  particular.  The  memory  of  certain  sins 
tormented  him,  and  he  used  Pete  as  his  confessor. 

Pete  was  a  very  innocent  soul.  He  had  spoilt  many  a 
man's  beauty  for  him,  but  he  had  never  been  the  slave 
of  a  woman's.  He  had  broken  arms  and  ribs,  and  noses 
by  the  score — and  he  had  once  nearly  killed  a  man,  and 
only  just  escaped  being  arrested  for  manslaughter  ;  but 
he  had  remained  through  it  all  an  innocent  soul.  He 
had  always  lived  in  the  open  air,  always  worked  hard, 
always  fought  hard — his  recreations  had  been  whistling 
and  sleep.  He  had  never  thought  about  sin  or  evil  of 
any  kind,  he  had  never  troubled  about  sex  except  as  it 
manifested  itself  in  the  brutes  he  had  the  care  of,  he  had 
never  read  or  talked  bawdry.  All  the  energies  of  his 
nature  had  been  poured  into  hard  work  and  hard  blows. 

Therefore  the  confessions  of  a  man  like  Albert  came 
upon  him  as  a  revelation.  Indeed,  at  first  he  scarcely 
understood  them.  They  disquieted  him  and  sometimes 
made  him  nervous  and  miserable,  not  because  he  had 
any  very  definite  moral  recoil,  but  because  they  forced 
him  to  think.  Few  can  gauge  the  tragedy  of  thinking 
when  it  visits  an  unthinking  soul.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  Pete  found  himself  confused,  questioning,  lying 
awake  of  nights  and  asking  "  why  ?  "  The  world 
suddenly  showed  itself  to  him  as  a  place  which  he  could 
not  understand.  It  frightened  him  to  think  about  it. 
Sometimes  he  was  acutely  miserable,  but  he  would  not 
betray  his  misery  to  Albert,  as  the  poor  fellow  seemed 
to  find  relief  in  his  confidences.  And  on  and  on  the 
stream  flowed,  swifter  and  muddier  every  day. 

§12. 

At  last  matters  reached  a  climax.  It  was  late  in 
March  ;  Albert  was  much  worse,  and  even  the  doctor 
looked  solemn.  "  He  won't  last  till  the  summer,"  he 


STRUGGLING    UP  367 

said  in  answer  to  one  of  Pete's  questions,  and  unluckily 
the  sick  man  heard  him. 

When  Pete  went  back  into  the  room  he  found  him 
struggling  under  the  bedclothes,  the  sweat  trickling 
down  his  face. 

"  Pete  !  "  he  cried  chokingly — "  I  won't  die  ! — I 
won't  die  !  " 

"  And  you  woan't,  nuther,"  said  Pete,  soothing  him. 

"  But  I  heard  what  the  doctor  said  to  you." 

Pete  was  at  a  loss.  He  could  lie  if  the  lie  were  not  too 
constructive,  but  in  a  case  like  this  he  was  done  for. 

"  Well,  doan't  you  fret,  nohow,"  he  murmured 
tenderly. 

But  it  was  no  good  telling  Albert  not  to  fret.  He 
threw  himself  from  side  to  side  in  the  bed,  moaned,  and 
almost  raved.  For  months  now  he  had  known  that  he 
must  die  soon,  but  somehow  the  idea  had  not  really 
come  home  to  him  till  this  moment.  He  would  not  let 
Pete  leave  him,  though  there  was  a  load  of  mangolds  to 
be  brought  in  ;  he  clung  to  his  brother's  hand  like  a 
child,  and  babbled  of  strange  sins. 

"  I've  been  so  wicked — I  daren't  die.  I've  been  the 
lowest  scum.  I'm  lost.  Pete,  I'm  damned — I  shall  go 
to  hell." 

Albert  had  been  known  openly  to  scoff  at  hell, 
whereas  Pete  had  never  thought  much  about  it.  Now 
it  confronted  them  both  under  a  new  aspect — the 
scoffer  trembled  and  the  thoughtless  was  preoccupied. 

"  Doan't  fret,"  reiterated  poor  Pete,  desperate  under 
the  fresh  complication  of  theology,  "  I  reckon  you're 
not  bad  enough  to  go  to  hell,  surelye." 

"  But  I'm  the  worst — the  worst  that  ever  was.  I'm 
scum,  I'm  dirt  " — and  out  poured  more  of  the  turbid 
stream,  till  Pete  sickened. 

"  If  I  could  only  see  a  parson,"  sobbed  Albert  at  last. 

"  A  parson  ?  " 

"  Yes — maybe  he  could  comfort  me.     Oh,  I  know 


368  SUSSEX    GORSE 

I've  mocked  'em  and  scoffed  'em  all  my  life,  but  I 
reckon  they  could  do  summat  for  me  now." 

In  his  weakness  he  had  gone  back  not  only  to  the 
religious  terrors  of  his  youth,  but  to  the  Sussex  dialect  he 
had  long  forgotten. 

Pete  scarcely  knew  what  to  do.  He  had  become  used 
to  his  brother's  gradual  disintegration,  but  this  utter 
collapse  was  terrifying.  He  offered  his  own  ministrations. 

"  You've  told  me  a  dunnamany  things,  and  you  can 
tell  me  as  many  more  as  you  just  about  like  " — touching 
the  climax  of  self-sacrifice. 

But  Albert's  weak  mind  clung  to  its  first  idea  with 
scared  tenacity.  He  was  still  raving  about  it  when 
Pete  came  in  from  his  work  that  evening. 

"  I  want  a  parson,"  he  moaned,  throwing  himself 
about  the  bed,  and  his  terrors  seemed  to  grow  upon  him 
as  the  darkness  grew. 

Neither  of  them  slept  that  night.  Albert  was  half 
delirious,  and  obsessed  by  the  thought  of  hell.  The 
room  looked  out  on  Boarzell,  and  he  became  convinced 
that  the  swart,  tufted  mass  outlined  against  the  sprinkled 
stars  was  hell,  the  country  of  the  lost.  He  pictured 
himself  wandering  over  and  over  it  in  torment.  He  said 
he  saw  fire  on  it,  scaring  the  superstitious  Pete  out  of 
his  life. 

"  On  the  great  Moor  of  the  lost 

Wander  all  the  proud  and  dead — 
Those  who  brothers'  blood  have  shed, 
Those  who  brothers'  love  have  crossed." 

He  broke  into  his  own  verse,  pouring  it  out  deliri- 
ously : 

"  There's  the  shuddering  ghost  of  me 
Lips  all  black  with  fire  and  brine, 
Chained  between  the  libertine 
And  the  fasting  Pharisee." 

Then  he  became  obsessed  by  the  idea  that  he  was  out 
on  the  Moor,  wandering  on  it,  and  bound  to  it.  The 


STRUGGLING    UP  369 

earth  was  red-hot  under  his  feet,  and  he  picked  them  up 
off  the  bed  like  a  cat  on  hot  bricks,  till  Pete  began  to 
laugh  inanely.  He  saw  round  him  all  the  places  he  had 
known  as  a  child,  and  called  out  for  them,  because  he 
longed  to  escape  to  them  from  the  burning  Moor — 
"  Cast  weasel !  Cast  weasel !  .  .  .  Ramstile  !  .  .  .  Ellen- 
whorne  .  .  ." 

It  was  strange  to  hear  a  man  calling  out  the  names  of 
places  in  his  fever  as  other  men  might  call  the  names  of 
people. 

It  was  all  a  return  to  Albert's  childhood.  In  spite  of 
fifteen  years  in  London,  of  a  man's  work  and  a  man's 
love  and  a  man's  faith,  he  had  gone  back  completely  to 
the  work  and  love  and  faith  of  his  childhood.  Odiam 
had  swallowed  him  up,  it  had  swallowed  him  up  com- 
pletely, his  very  hell  was  bounded  by  it.  He  spoke  with 
a  Sussex  accent ;  he  forgot  the  names  of  the  women  he 
had  loved,  and  cried  instead  the  names  of  places,  and  he 
forgot  that  he  did  not  believe  in  hell,  but  thought  of  it 
as  Boarzell  Moor  punctured  by  queer  singing  flames. 

Pete  lay  and  listened  shuddering,  waiting  with  sick 
desire  for  the  kindling  of  the  dawn  and  the  whiteness 
that  moved  among  the  trees.  At  last  they  came,  the 
sky  bloomed,  and  the  orchard  flickered  against  it, 
stirred  by  a  soundless  wind.  The  poor  fellow  sat  up  in 
bed,  all  troubled  and  muddled  by  things  that  had  never 
touched  him  before.  He  stretched  himself  and  yawned 
from  force  of  habit,  for  he  was  not  in  the  least  sleepy, 
then  he  began  to  dress. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  mumbled  Albert,  himself  again  for  a 
moment. 

"  I'm  going  to  fetch  a  parson,"  said  Pete. 

It  was  very  gallant  of  him  to  do  so,  for  it  meant 
venturing  still  further  into  new  spheres  of  thought. 
None  of  the  Backfields  had  been  to  church  for  years, 
though  Reuben  prided  himself  on  being  a  good  church- 
man, and  Pete  was  rather  at  a  loss  what  to  do  in  a 
2  B 


370  SUSSEX    GORSE 

ghostly  crisis  such  as  this.  However,  on  one  thing  he 
was  resolved — that  he  would  not  go  through  another 
night  like  the  last,  and  he  credited  a  parson  with 
mysterious  cabalistic  powers  which  would  miraculously 
soothe  the  invalid  and  assure  him  of  sleep  in  future. 

So  he  tramped  off  towards  the  Rectory,  wondering  a 
little  what  he  should  say  when  he  got  there,  but  leaving 
it  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment.  He  warmed  his 
honest  heart  with  thoughts  of  Albert  sleeping  peace- 
fully and  dying  beautifully,  though  it  chilled  him  a 
little  to  think  of  death.  Why  could  not  Albert  live  ? — 
Pete  would  have  liked  to  think  of  him  lying  for  years 
and  years  in  that  big  untidy  bed,  pathetic  and  feeble, 
and  always  claiming  by  his  weakness  the  whole  strength 
that  a  day  of  unresting  toil  had  left  his  brother. 

The  morning  flushed.  A  soft  pink  crept  into  ponds 
and  dawn-swung  windows.  The  light  perfumes  of  April 
softened  the  cold,  clear  air — the  scent  of  sprouting  leaves 
in  the  woods,  and  of  primroses  in  the  grass,  while  the 
anemones  frothed  scentless  against  the  hedges.  Pete 
was  about  half  a  mile  from  the  village  when  he  heard  the 
sound  of  angry  voices  round  a  bend  in  the  lane,  pricked 
by  little  screams  from  a  woman.  Expecting  a  fight  he 
hurried  up  eagerly,  and  was  just  in  time  to  see  one  of 
the  grandest  upper  cuts  in  his  life.  A  short,  well-built 
man  in  black  had  just  knocked  down  a  huge,  hulking 
tramp  who  had  evidently  been  improving  the  hour  with 
a  woman  now  blotted  against  the  hedge.  He  lay  flat  in 
the  road,  unconscious,  while  his  adversary  stood  over 
him,  his  fist  still  clenched  and  all  the  skin  off  his  knuckles. 

"  Lordy  !  but  that  wur  just  about  praaper  !  "  cried 
Pete,  bustling  up,  and  sorry  that  the  tramp  showed  no 
signs  of  getting  on  to  his  feet. 

"  It's  settled  him  anyhow/'  said  the  man  in  black. 

They  both  stooped  and  eyed  him  critically. 

"  You've  landed  him  in  a  good  plaace,"  said  Pete ;  "  a 
little  farther  back  and  he'd  have  been  gone." 


STRUGGLING    UP  371 

"  Praise  be  to  God  that  his  life  was  spared/' 

Pete  looked  in  some  surprise  at  the  bruiser,  who 
continued : 

"  I'm  out  of  practice,  or  I  shouldn't  have  skinned 
myself  like  this — ah,  here's  Coalbran's  trap.  Perhaps 
he'll  give  you  a  lift,  ma'am,  into  Peasmarsh." 

The  woman  was  helped  into  the  trap,  and  after  some 
discussion  it  was  decided  not  to  give  themselves  the 
trouble  of  taking  the  tramp  to  the  police  station,  but  to 
pull  him  to  the  side  of  the  road  and  leave  him  to  the 
consequences  he  had  brought  upon  himself. 

"  He's  had  some  punishment,"  said  Pete  when  they 
were  alone.  He  inspected  the  tramp,  now  feebly  moan- 
ing, with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur.  "  I'm  hemmed  if  I 
ever  saw  a  purtier  knock-out." 

"  I'm  out  of  training,  as  I  told  you,"  said  the 
stranger. 

"  Then  you  must  have  bin  a  valiant  basher  in  your 
day.  It's  a  pity  you  let  yourself  go  slack." 

"  It  was  not  becoming  that  I  should  use  my  fists, 
except  to  defend  the  weak.  I  am  a  minister  of  the 
Lord." 

"  A  parson  !  "  cried  Pete. 

"  A  minister  of  the  Lord,"  repeated  with  some 
severity  the  man  in  black,  "  of  the  brotherhood  named 
Ebenezer." 

Pete  remembered  hearing  that  a  new  parson  was 
coming  to  the  local  Methodists,  but  nothing  had  led  him 
to  expect  such  thrilling  developments. 

"  I  used  to  be  in  the  fancy,"  said  the  minister,  "  but 
five  years  ago  the  Lord  challenged  me,  and  knocked  me 
out  in  the  first  round." 

Pete  was  following  a  train  of  thought. 

"  Is  a  minister  the  same  as  a  parson  ?  "  he  asked  at 
length. 

"  Is  a  priest  of  Jehovah  the  same  as  a  priest  of  Baal  ? 
For  shame,  young  man  !  " 


372  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  I  mean  can  a  minister  do  wot  a  Parson  does  ? — tell 
a  poor  feller  wot's  dying  that  he  woan't  go  to  hell." 

"  Not  if  he's  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb/' 

"  That's  wot  I  mean,  surelye.  Could  you  come  and 
talk  to  a  sick  man  about  all  that  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

A  gleam  came  into  the  minister's  eyes,  very  much  the 
same  as  when  he  had  knocked  out  the  tramp. 

"  Reckon  I  could  !  "  he  cried  fierily.  "  Reckon  I  can 
snatch  a  brand  from  the  burning,  reckon  I  can  find  the 
lost  piece  of  silver ;  reckon  I  can  save  the  wandering 
sheep,  and  wash  it  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb." 

"  Same  as  a  parson  ?  "  enquired  Pete  anxiously. 

"  Better  than  any  mitred  priest  of  Ammon,  for  I 
shall  not  vex  the  sinner's  soul  with  dead  works,  but 
wash  it  in  the  crimson  fountain.  You  trust  your  sick 
man  to  me,  young  feller — I'll  wash  him  in  blood,  I'll 
clothe  him  in  righteousness,  I'll  feed  him  with  salvation." 

"  I'll  justabout  taake  you  to  him,  then.  He  asked  fur 
a  'stablished  parson,  but  I'd  sooner  far  bring  you,  for, 
Lordy,  if  you  aun't  the  praaperest  bruiser  I've  ever  set 
eyes  on." 

§13. 

That  was  how  the  Rev.  Roger  Ades  started  his 
ministrations  at  Odiam.  At  first  Reuben  was  disgusted. 
He  had  never  before  had  truck  with  Dissenters,  whom  he 
considered  low-class  and  unfit  for  anyone  above  a  tenant 
farmer.  He  was  outraged  by  the  thought  of  the  pastor's 
almost  daily  visits,  accompanied  by  loud  singing  of 
hymns  in  Albert's  bedroom.  However,  he  did  not 
actually  forbid  him  the  house,  for  Pete  had  brought  him 
there,  and  Reuben  never  treated  Pete  exactly  as  he 
treated  his  other  sons.  Pete  was  the  only  member  of 
his  family  who  had  so  far  not  disgraced  Odiam — 
except  the  two  little  boys,  who  were  too  young — and  he 
was  always  careful  to  do  nothing  that  might  unsettle 
him  and  drive  him  into  his  brother's  treacherous  ways. 


STRUGGLING    UP  373 

So  the  pastor  of  Ebenezer  came  unchecked,  and  doubt- 
less his  ministrations  were  appreciated,  for  as  time  went 
by  the  intervals  between  them  grew  shorter  and  shorter, 
till  at  last  Mr.  Ades  was  more  often  in  the  house  than  out 
of  it. 

Though  strengthened  in  soul,  Albert  grew  weaker  in 
body,  and  Pete  began  to  scamp  his  farm  work.  Even 
when  the  minister  was  present,  he  would  not  leave  his 
brother.  It  grieved  Reuben  that,  while  outside  matters 
prospered,  indoors  they  should  remind  him  of  a 
Methodist  conventicle.  The  house  was  full  of  hymns, 
they  burst  through  the  close -shut  windows  of  Albert's 
bedroom  and  assaulted  the  ears  of  workers  on  Boarzell. 
In  the  evenings,  when  Ades  was  gone,  Pete  whistled  them 
about  the  house.  Reuben  was  ashamed  ;  it  made  him 
blush  to  think  that  his  stout  churchmanship  should 
have  to  put  up  with  this.  "  I  scarcely  dare  show  my 
face  in  the  pub,  wud  all  this  going  on  at  hoame,"  he 
remarked  sorrowfully. 

Meanwhile,  the  farm  was  doing  well ;  indeed,  it  was 
almost  back  at  its  former  glory.  Having  laid  the 
foundations,  Reuben  could  now  think  of  expansion, 
and  he  engaged  two  more  farm-hands. 

He  had  quite  changed  the  look  of  Boarzell.  Instead 
of  the  swell  and  tumble  of  the  heather,  were  now  long 
stretches  of  chocolate  furrows,  where  only  the  hedge 
mustard  sometimes  sprang  mutinously,  soon  to  be  rooted 
up.  Reuben,  however,  looked  less  on  these  than  on  the 
territories  still  unconquered.  He  would  put  his  head  on 
one  side  and  contemplate  the  Moor  from  different 
angles,  trying  to  size  the  rough  patch  at  the  top.  He 
wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  it  could  all  be 
his.  He  would  have  to  work  like  a  fiend  if  he  was  to  do 
it  in  his  lifetime.  There  was  the  Grandturzel  inclosure, 
too  .  .  .  Then  he  would  go  and  whip  up  his  men,  and 
make  them  work  nearly  as  hard  as  he  worked  himself,  so 
that  in  the  evening  they  would  complain  at  the  Cocks  of 


374  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  wot  a  tedious  hard  maaster  Mus'  Backfield  wur, 
surely e  !  " 

One  day  Albert  sent  his  father  a  message  through 
Pete. 

"  He  wanted  me  to  tell  you  wot  an  unaccountable 
difference  he  sees  in  Boarzell  now  he's  come  back.  He'd 
never  have  known  it,  'tis  so  changed.  All  the  new  bit 
towards  Doozes  is  just  about  praaper." 

Reuben  said  nothing,  in  spite  of  the  entreaty  in  Pete's 
honest  eyes,  but  his  heart  warmed  towards  his  son. 
Albert  had  shown  at  last  proper  spirit ;  he  had  no 
doubt  realised  his  baseness,  and  acknowledged  that  he 
had  been  a  fool  and  villain  to  betray  Odiam.  Now  he 
saw  how  mightily  the  farm  prospered  in  spite  of  adver- 
sity, he  praised  its  greatness,  and  no  man  could  praise 
Odiam  without  winning  a  little  of  Reuben's  goodwill. 
He  softened  towards  the  prodigal,  and  felt  that  he 
would  like  to  see  the  boy — he  still  called  him  "  the 
boy,"  though  he  was  thirty-seven — and  if  he  behaved 
penitently  and  humbly,  forgive  him  before  he  died. 

That  evening  he  went  up  to  Pete's  room.  The  sound 
of  voices  came  from  it,  one  exceedingly  loud,  and  it 
struck  Reuben  that "  that  hemmed  Methody  "  was  there. 
He  opened  the  door  and  looked  in.  Albert  lay  propped 
up  in  the  bed,  his  hands,  wasted  into  claws,  clasped  in 
the  attitude  of  prayer,  his  eyes  protruding  strangely 
above  his  sunken  cheeks,  where  the  skin  was  stretched 
on  the  bones.  Pete  knelt  beside  him,  his  eyes  closed, 
his  hands  folded,  like  a  child  saying  its  prayers,  and  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  the  Rev.  Roger  Ades,  his  face 
contorted  with  fervour,  his  arms  waving  in  attitudes 
that  were  reminiscent  of  the  boxing  ring  in  spite  of  his 
efforts. 

None  of  them  saw  or  heard  Reuben's  entrance,  and  at 
that  moment  they  all  burst  into  a  hymn : 

"  There's  life  in  the  crimson  Fountain, 

There's  peace  in  the  Blood  of  the  Slain." 


STRUGGLING    UP  375 

A  long  shudder  of  disgust  went  over  Reuben's  flesh. 
He  was  utterly  shocked  by  what  he  saw.  That  such 
things  could  go  on  in  his  house  struck  him  with  horror, 
tinctured  by  shame.  He  went  out,  shutting  the  door 
noisily  behind  him — the  softer  feelings  had  gone ; 
instead  he  felt  bitterly  and  furiously  humiliated. 

The  hymn  faltered  and  stopped  when  the  door  banged, 
but  the  next  moment  the  minister  caught  it  up  again, 
and  hurled  it  after  Reuben's  indignant  retreat : 

"  My  soul  is  all  washed  to  whiteness, 
And  I'll  never  be  foul  again. 

Salvation  !    Salvation  full  and  free  !  " 


§14- 

Early  in  May,  Pete  came  out  to  Reuben  on  Boarzell 
and  told  him  that  Albert  was  dead.  Reuben  felt  a  little 
awkward  and  a  little  relieved. 

"  He  died  quiet,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes/'  said  Pete,  "  he  laid  hold  on  the  merits  of 
Jesus." 

Reuben  started. 

"  It  wur  a  praaper  death,"  continued  Pete ;  "  his 
soul  wur  washed  as  white  as  wool.  He  wur  the  prodigal 
son  come  hoame ;  he  wur  the  Lord's  lost  sixpence,  I 
reckon." 

"  And  that  son  of  a  harlot  from  Little  Bethel  wurn't 
wud  him,  I  trust  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  going  to  fetch  him  now." 

His  father  opened  his  mouth  to  forbid  him  angrily, 
but  changed  his  mind  and  said  nothing.  Pete  walked 
off  whistling — "  When  the  cleansing  Blood  is  poured." 

Reuben  could  not  help  feeling  relieved  at  Albert's 
death,  but  he  had  noticed  with  some  alarm  Pete's 
definitely  religious  phraseology.  He  hoped  that  Ades 
had  not  corrupted  him  from  his  pure  churchmanship, 
the  honourable  churchmanship  of  the  Backfields.  Being 


376  SUSSEX    GORSE 

a  Dissenter  was  only  one  degree  better  than  being  a 
Liberal,  and  Reuben  swore  to  keep  a  firm  hand  over 
Pete  in  future. 

That  evening  he  and  his  son  had  their  first  conflict. 
Pete  announced  that  he  had  made  arrangements  with 
Ades  for  Albert's  funeral,  and  Reuben  announced  with 
equal  conviction  that  he  was  hemmed  if  Ades  had  any 
truck  in  it  wotsumdever.  Albert  should  be  buried 
according  to  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  the  Church  of 
England,  he  wasn't  going  to  have  any  salvation  sung 
over  his  grave.  Pete,  on  the  other  hand,  stuck  to  his 
point,  and  alarmed  Reuben  with  more  religious  phrase- 
ology. 

"  It  wur  Ades  wot  gave  him  to  the  Lord,  wot  found 
him  salvation  in  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb." 

"  I  doan't  care  two  straws  about  that.  Albert  wur 
born  and  christened  Church,  and  he's  not  going  to  die 
chapel  because  a  lousy  Methody  sings  hymns  over  him 
when  he's  sick  and  doan't  know  better.  If  I  find  that 
feller  on  my  plaace  again,  I'll  break  every  bone  in  his 
body." 

Pete  angrily  defended  the  minister,  which  caused 
Reuben  fresh  alarm  ;  for  in  the  old  days  when  his 
father  abused  Ades  he  had  tried  to  conciliate  him  by 
laying  stress  on  the  latter's  prowess  as  a  bruiser,  but 
now  he  never  once  mentioned  his  fists,  enlarging  instead 
on  his  qualities  of  soul  and  on  the  fact  that  he  had  found 
Christ.  The  two  theologians  carried  on  their  argument 
till  well  past  bedtime,  and  at  last  separated  in  a  great 
state  of  dogma  and  indignation. 

In  the  end  it  was  the  Church  that  won.  Reuben  went 
over  early  the  next  morning  to  the  Rectory,  and  made 
arrangements  for  Albert's  funeral  on  the  following 
Monday.  He  enlarged  on  the  conflict  he  had  had  with 
Pete,  and  was  a  little  dashed  by  the  rector's  want  of 
enthusiasm. 

Albert  was  buried  with  all  the  decent  rites  of  the 


STRUGGLING    UP  377 

Establishment.  He  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  Christian 
company  of  his  mother  and  his  brother  George,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  churchyard  where  it  touched  the  pond  • 
a  little  way  from  him  was  the  old  yeoman  who  had 
"  never  wanted  anything  he  hadn't  got,  and  so  hadn't 
got  anything  he  didn't  want."  It  relieved  Pete  a  little 
to  think  that  from  where  he  lay  his  brother  could 
not  see  Boarzell — "  not  even  if  he  sat  up  in  his 
grave." 

The  funeral  was  dignified  and  impressive,  and  every 
now  and  then  Reuben  glanced  across  at  his  son  with 
eyes  that  said — "  Wot  could  Ebenezer  have  done  com- 
pared wud  this  ?  "  All  the  same,  he  was  disappointed. 
Somehow  he  had  expected  his  churchmanship  to  strike 
the  rector  and  the  curate  very  favourably  ;  he  had 
expected  them  metaphorically  to  fall  on  his  neck-;  he 
saw  himself  as  a  champion  of  established  Christendom, 
of  tithes  and  glebes  and  cosy  rectories  and  "  dearly 
beloved  brethren  "  on  Sundays.  It  was  humiliating 
to  find  himself  ignored,  indeed  treated  as  an  outsider, 
simply  because  he  had  not  been  to  church  for  ten  years. 
He  had  had  his  children  baptised  into  the  Establish- 
ment, and  now  he  was  burying  his  son  according  to  its 
rites,  in  spite  of  opposition,  even  persecution.  These 
parsons  were  ungrateful,  bigoted,  and  blind. 

Perhaps  though,  he  thought,  their  behaviour  was 
partially  accounted  for  by  that  of  Pete,  who  stood 
beside  the  grave  with  his  eyes  shut,  saying  "  A-aaa- 
men  "  at  unliturgical  intervals,  as  only  Dissenters  can 
say  it. 

§15- 

Pete  spent  that  evening  with  Ades,  and  Reuben's 
fireside  slumbers  were  unrestful  because  he  missed 
Pete's  accustomed  snore  from  the  other  end  of  the 
settle.  The  next  morning  his  son  did  not  appear,  though 
there  was  plenty  of  work  to  be  done  in  the  hop-fields. 


378  SUSSEX    GORSE 

The  young  hops  were  now  well  above  ground,  and 
exposed  to  the  perils  of  blight,  so  Reuben  and  Beatup 
were  spraying  them  with  insect-killer,  badly  in  need 
of  a  third  man  to  do  the  mixing. 

"  Where's  Pete  ?  "  asked  Reuben. 

"  I  dunno — aun't  seen  un  this  mornun.  Ah — thur 
he  be  !  " 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  Coaming  up  by  the  brook,  surely e." 

Reuben  stared  in  amazement.  The  approaching 
figure  undoubtedly  was  Pete,  but  a  Pete  so  changed  by 
circumstances  and  demeanour  as  to  be  almost  un- 
recognisable. He  wore  his  Sunday  black  clothes,  which 
— as,  with  the  exception  of  the  funeral,  he  had  not  put 
them  on  for  ten  years — were  something  of  a  misfit.  On 
his  head  was  a  black  hat  with  a  wide  flapping  brim,  he 
walked  with  a  measured  step  and  his  hands  folded  in 
front  of  him. 

"  Well/'  cried  Reuben,  calling  abuse  to  the  rescue  of 
surprise — "  you  hemmed  lazy  good-fur-nothing,  you  ! 
— wud  all  the  Glotten  hay  to  be  cut,  and  ten  acres  o' 
hops  to  be  sprayed,  and  you  go  laying  in  bed  lik  a  lady, 
and  then  come  out  all  dressed  as  if  you  wur  going  to 
church.  Where's  your  corduroys  ?  " 

"  In  my  box — you  can  cloathe  the  naked  wud  'em — 
I'm  never  going  to  put  'em  on  no  more." 

"  I'm  hemmed  if  I'll  have  you  working  on  my  farm  in 
that  foolery.  You'll  maake  us  the  laughing-stock  of 
Peasmarsh.  You've  got  Ebenezer  on  the  brain,  you 
have,  and  you  can  justabout  git  it  off  again." 

"  I'm  never  going  to  do  another  stroake  of  wark  on 
your  farm  as  long  as  I  live.  Salvation's  got  me." 

Reuben  dropped  the  insect-killer. 

"  I'm  the  Lord's  lost  lamb,"  announced  Pete. 

"  The  Lord's  lost !  "    cried  his  father   angrily. 

"  You  taake  off  them  blacks,  and  git  to  work  lik  a 
human  being." 


STRUGGLING    UP  379 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  never  going  to  work  fur  you  agaun. 
I'm  going  forth  to  spread  the  Word.  Salvation's  got 
me." 

"  You  wait  till  /  git  you,  that's  all,"  and  Reuben  ran 
at  Pete. 

"  Kip  off,  or  I'll  slosh  you  one  on  the  boko,"  cried  the 
Lord's  lost  lamb  swinging  up  a  vigorous  pair  of  fists. 
Reuben  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  There — I  knew  as  there  wur  reason  in  you,  Pete. 
You  woan't  go  and  leave  your  faather  lik  the  rest,  all 
fur  a  hemmed  Methody." 

"  Hemmed  Methody  !  That's  how  you  spik  of  the 
man  wot's  saaved  my  soul.  I  tell  you  as  there  I  wur 
lost  in  trespasses  and  sins,  and  now  I'm  washed  white 
as  wool — there  wur  my  evil  doings  sticking  to  my  soul 
lik  maggots  to  a  dead  rat,  and  now  my  soul's  washed 
in  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb,  and  I'm  going  out  to  spread 
the  Word." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Unto  the  ends  of  the  earth — Hastings.  There's  a 
friend  of  Ades  there  wot'll  guide  me  into  the  Spirit's 
ways." 

"  But  you'll  never  leave  me  at  the  time  of  the 
hay-harvest,  and  Emily  due  to  calve  in  another 
month  ? " 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  shut  of  your  farm — it's  wot's  led  me 
astray  from  a  lad.  Instead  of  settin'  and  reading  godly 
books  and  singing  wud  the  saints  I've  gone  and  ploughed 
furrers  and  carted  manure ;  I've  thought  only  of  the 
things  of  the  flesh,  I've  walked  lik  accursed  Adam 
among  the  thistles.  But  now  a  Voice  says,  '  work  no 
more  ! — go  and  spread  the  Word  !  '  And  if  you're 
wise,  faather,  you'll  coame  too,  and  you,  Beatup. 
You'll  flee  from  the  wrath  to  coame,  when  He  shall 
shaake  the  earth  and  the  elimunts  shall  dissolve  in 
fervient  heat,  and  He  ..." 

"  Have  adone  do  wud  your  preaching.    I'm  ashamed 


880  SUSSEX    GORSE 

of  you,  led  astray  by  lurries  as  if  you  wur  no  better  nor 
poor  Harry.  You're  a  hemmed  lousy  traitor,  you  are, 
the  worst  of  'em  all." 

"  I'm  only  fleeing  from  the  wrath  to  coame — and  if 
you're  wise  you'll  foller  me.  This  farm  is  the  city  of 
destruction,  I  tell  you,  it's  a  snare  of  the  devil,  it's 
Naboth's  vineyard,  it's  the  lake  that  burneth  wud  fire 
and  brimstone.  Coame  out  of  her,  coame  out  of  her, 
my  peoples  !  " 

Reuben  was  paralysed.  His  jaw  worked  convulsively, 
and  he  looked  at  Pete  as  if  he  were  a  specially  new  and 
pestilential  form  of  blight. 

"  Save  yourself,  faather,"  continued  the  evangelist, 
"  and  give  up  all  the  vain  desires  of  the  flesh.  Is  this  a 
time  to  buy  olive-yards  and  vineyards  ?  Beware  lest 
there  coame  upon  you  as  it  did  to  him  wot  purchaised 
a  field,  the  reward  of  inquiety,  and  falling  headlong  he 
bust  asunder  in  the  midst  and  his  bowels  goshed 
out " 

But  Reuben  had  found  his  voice. 

"  Git  out  of  this  !  "  he  shouted.  "  I  woan't  stand  here 
and  listen  to  you  miscalling  the  farm  wot's  bred  you  and 
fed  you  over  thirty  year.  Git  out,  and  never  think 
you'll  come  back  again.  I'm  shut  of  you.  I  doan't 
want  no  more  of  you — I'm  out  of  the  wood  now,  I've 
got  all  the  work  out  of  you  I've  needed,  so  you  can  go, 
and  spread  your  hemmed  Word,  and  be  hemmed.  I'm 
shut  of  you." 

Pete  fixed  upon  his  father  a  gaze  meant  to  inspire  the 
utmost  terrors  of  conscience,  then  turned  on  his  heel 
and  slowly  walked  away. 

The  sight  of  his  broad  black  back  disappearing  among 
the  hop-bines  was  too  much  for  Reuben.  He  picked  up 
the  can  of  insect -killer  and  hurled  it  after  his  son, 
splashing  his  respectability  from  head  to  foot  with  the 
stinking  fluid.  Pete  flung  round  with  his  fists  up,  then 
suddenly  dropped  them  and  raised  his  eyes  instead. 


STRUGGLING    UP  381 

"  You  wudn't  daur  do  that  if  I  hadn't  been  saved  !  " 
he  shouted. 

Then  he  walked  off,  beautiful  of  soul  no  doubt,  but 
highly  unpleasant  of  body. 


BOOK    VII 
THE    END    IN    SIGHT 


f^HE    next    five    years   were    comparatively   un- 

eventful.    All  that  stood  out  of  them  was  the 

steady  progress  of  the  farm.       It    fattened,  it 

grew,  it  crept  up  Boarzell  as  the  slow  tides  softly  flood 

a  rock. 

Reuben  was  now  alone  at  Odiam  with  his  two  small 
children  and  Harry.  David  and  Bill,  unlike  their  pre- 
decessors, did  not  start  their  career  as  farm-hands  till 
well  past  babyhood.  Reuben  no  longer  economised  in 
labour  —  he  had  nearly  a  dozen  men  in  regular  employ, 
to  say  nothing  of  casuals.  Sometimes  he  thought 
regretfully  of  the  stalwart  sons  who  were  to  have  worked 
for  him,  to  have  run  the  farm  without  any  outside  help 
.  .  .  but  that  dream  belonged  to  bygone  days,  and  he 
resolutely  put  it  from  him.  After  all,  his  posse  of  farm- 
hands was  the  envy  of  the  neighbourhood  ;  no  one  in 
Peasmarsh  employed  so  many. 

Reuben  himself  was  still  able  for  a  great  deal  of  work. 
Though  over  sixty,  he  still  had  much  of  the  vigour,  as  he 
had  all  the  straightness,  of  his  youth.  Work  had  not 
bent  him  and  crippled  him,  as  it  had  crippled  Beatup, 
his  junior  by  several  years.  The  furnace  of  his  pride  and 
resolution  seemed  to  have  dried  the  damps  steamed  up 
by  the  earth  from  her  revengeful  wounds,  so  that 
rheumatism  —  the  plague  of  the  labourer  on  the  soil  — 
had  done  no  worse  for  him  than  shooting  pains  in  the 
winter  with  a  slight  thickening  of  his  joints. 

382 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  388 

His  hair  had  been  grey  for  years,  and  as  he  grew  older 
it  did  not  whiten,  but  stayed  the  colour  of  polished  iron, 
straight,  shining,  and  thick  as  a  boy's.  He  had  lost  two 
back  teeth,  and  made  a  tremendous  fuss  about  them, 
saying  it  was  all  the  fault  of  the  dentist  in  Rye,  who 
preferred  a  shilling  extraction  to  a  threepenny  lotion — 
but  the  rest  of  his  teeth  were  as  good  as  ever,  though  at 
last  a  trifle  discoloured  by  smoking. 

His  face  was  a  network  of  wrinkles.  He  was  not  the 
sort  of  countryman  whose  skin  old  age  stretches 
smoothly  over  the  bones  and  reddens  benignly  as  a  sun- 
warmed  apple.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  grown  swarthier 
with  the  years,  the  ruddy  tints  had  been  hardened  into 
the  brown,  and  from  everywhere,  from  the  corners  of 
his  eyes,  of  his  mouth,  of  his  nose,  across  his  forehead, 
along  his  cheeks,  under  his  chin,  spread  a  web  of  lines, 
some  mere  hair-tracery  on  the  surface,  others  wrinkled 
deep,  others  ploughed  in  like  the  furrows  of  his  own 
fields. 

Harry  had  not  aged  so  successfully.  He  was  terribly 
bent,  and  some  of  his  joints  were  swollen  grotesquely, 
though  he  had  not  had  so  much  truck  as  Reuben  with 
the  earth  and  her  vapours.  He  was  so  thin  that  he 
amounted  to  little  more  than  shrivelled  yellow  skin  over 
some  twisted  bones,  and  yet  he  was  wiry  and  clung 
desperately  to  life.  Reuben  was  sorry  for  this — his 
brother  annoyed  him.  Harry  grew  more  irritating  with 
old  age.  He  still  played  his  fiddle,  though  he  had  now 
forgotten  every  semblance  of  a  tune,  and  if  it  were  taken 
away  from  him  by  some  desperate  person  he  would  raise 
such  an  outcry  that  it  would  soon  be  restored  as  a  lesser 
evil.  He  hardly  ever  spoke  to  anyone,  but  muttered  to 
himself.  "  Salvation's  got  me  !  "  he  would  croak,  for 
his  mind  had  been  inexplicably  stamped  by  Pete's 
outrage,  and  he  forgot  all  about  that  perpetual  wedding 
which  had  puzzled  him  for  so  many  years.  "  Salvation's 
got  me  !  "  he  would  yell,  suddenly  waking  in  the  middle 


384  SUSSEX    GORSE 

of  the  night — keeping  the  memory  of  the  last  traitor 
always  green. 

But  it  was  for  other  reasons  that  Reuben  most  wished 
that  Harry  would  die.  Harry  was  a  false  note,  a  discord 
in  his  now  harmonious  scheme.  He  was  a  continual 
reminder  of  the  power  of  Boarzell,  and  would  occasion- 
ally sweep  Reuben's  thoughts  away  from  those  fat 
corn-fields  licking  at  the  crest  to  that  earliest  little  patch 
down  by  Tot  ease,  where  the  Moor  had  drunk  up  its  first 
blood.  He  called  himself  a  fool,  but  he  could  not  help 
seeing  something  sinister  and  fateful  in  Harry,  scraping 
tunelessly  at  his  fiddle,  or  repeating  over  and  over  again 
some  wandering  echo  from  the  outside  world  which  had 
managed  to  reach  his  dungeoned  brain.  Reuben  wished 
he  would  die,  and  so  did  the  farm-boy  who  slept  with 
him,  and  the  dairy-woman  who  fed  him  at  meals. 

The  only  people  who  would  have  been  sorry  if  he  had 
died  were  the  children.  Harry  was  popular  with  them, 
as  he  had  been  with  baby  Fanny  long  ago,  because  he 
made  funny  faces  and  emitted  strange,  unexpected 
sounds.  He  was  unlike  the  accepted  variety  of  grown-up 
people,  who  were  seldom  amusing  or  surprising,  and  one 
could  take  liberties  with  him,  such  as  one  could  not  take 
with  faather  or  Maude.  Also,  being  blind,  one  could 
play  on  him  the  most  fascinating  tricks. 

These  tricks  were  never  unkind,  for  David  and  William 
were  the  most  benevolent  little  boys.  They  saw  life 
through  a  golden  mist,  it  smelt  of  milk  and  apples,  it 
was  full  of  soft  lowings  and  bleatings  and  cheepings,  of 
gentle  noses  to  stroke  and  little  downy  things  to  hold. 
For  the  first  time  since  it  became  Reuben's,  Odiam 
made  children  happy.  The  farm  which  had  been  a 
galley  and  a  prison  to  those  before  them,  was  an  en- 
chanted land  of  adventure  to  these  two.  Old  Beatup, 
who  remembered  earlier  things,  would  sometimes  smile 
when  he  saw  them  trotting  hand  in  hand  about  the  yard, 
playing  long  hours  in  the  orchard,  and  now  and  then 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  385 

pleading  as  a  special  favour  to  be  allowed  to  feed  the 
chickens,  or  help  fetch  the  cows  home.  He  seemed  to 
see  the  farm  peopled  by  little  ghosts  who  had  never 
dared  trot  about  aimlessly,  or  had  time  to  play,  and 
had  fed  the  fowls  and  fetched  the  cows  not  as  a  treat 
and  an  adventure,  but  as  a  dreary  part  of  the  day's 
grind  ...  he  reflected  that  "  the  maaster  had  learned 
summat  by  the  others,  surelye." 

Of  course,  one  reason  why  David  and  Billy  were  so 
free  was  because  of  the  growing  prosperity  of  the  farm, 
which  no  longer  made  it  necessary  to  save  and  scrape. 
But  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  a  fact  that  the  maaster 
had  learned  summat  by  the  others.  He  was  resolved 
that,  come  what  might,  he  would  keep  these  boys.  They 
should  not  leave  him  like  their  brothers ;  and  since 
harshness  had  failed  to  keep  those  at  home,  he  would  now 
try  a  slacker  rule.  He  was  growing  old,  and  he  wanted 
to  think  that  at  his  death  Odiam  would  pass  into  loyal 
and  loving  hands,  he  wanted  to  think  of  its  great 
traditions  being  carried  on  in  all  their  glory.  Sometimes 
he  would  have  terrible  dreams  of  Odiam  being  divided 
at  his  death,  split  up  into  allotments  and  small-holdings, 
scrapped  into  building  plots.  Such  dreams  made  him 
look  with  hungry  tenderness  at  the  two  little  figures 
trotting  hand  in  hand  about  the  orchard  and  the  barns. 

§2. 

It  was  about  that  time  that  the  great  Lewin  case  came 
on  at  the  Old  Bailey.  The  papers  were  full  of  it,  and 
Reuben  could  not  suppress  a  glow  of  pride  when  Maude 
the  dairy-woman  read  out  the  name  of  Richard  Back- 
field  as  junior  counsel  for  the  defence.  But  his  pride 
was  to  be  still  further  exalted.  The  senior  counsel 
collapsed  with  some  serious  illness  on  the  very  eve  of  the 
trial,  and  Richard  stepped  into  his  shoes.  The  papers 
were  now  full  of  his  name,  it  was  on  everyone's  lips 


386  SUSSEX    GORSE 

throughout  the  kingdom,  and  especially  in  the  public- 
houses  between  Rye  and  the  Kent  border.  Men  stopped 
drinking  at  the  Cocks  when  Reuben  came  in,  and  women 
ran  down  to  their  garden  gates  when  he  passed  by. 
Reuben  himself  did  not  say  much,  but  he  now  regularly 
took  in  a  daily  paper,  and  being  able  to  recognise  the 
name  of  Backfield  in  print,  sat  chasing  the  magic  word 
through  dark  labyrinths  of  type,  counting  the  number  of 
its  appearances  and  registering  them  on  the  back  of  his 
corn  accounts. 

"  How's  the  Lewin  caase  gitting  on  ?  "  someone  would 
ask  at  the  Cocks,  and  Reuben  would  answer : 

"  Valiant — my  naum  wur  sixteen  times  in  the  paaper 
this  mornun." 

He  almost  taught  himself  to  read  by  this  means,  for  it 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  studied  a  printed  page, 
and  he  had  soon  picked  up  several  words  besides  Back- 
field.  Not  that  he  took  much  interest  in  the  case  beyond 
Richard's — that  is  to  say,  Odiam's — share  in  it,  but  soon 
it  became  clear  that  Richard  was  leading  it  to  marvellous 
developments.  Lewin  was  a  bank-manager  accused  of 
colossal  frauds,  and  Richard  amazed  the  country  by 
dragging  a  couple  of  hitherto  respected  banking  knights 
into  the  business.  At  one  time  it  was  thought  he  would 
get  an  acquittal  by  this,  but  Richard  was  a  barrister, 
not  a  detective,  and  he  brilliantly  got  his  client  acquitted 
on  a  point  of  law,  which  though  it  may  have  baffled 
a  little  the  romantic  enthusiasm  of  his  newspaper 
admirers,  made  his  name  one  to  conjure  with  in  legal 
circles,  so  that  briefs  were  no  longer  matters  of  luck  and 
prayer. 

His  fortune  was  made  by  the  Lewin  case.  He  wrote 
home  and  told  his  father  that  he  had  now  "  arrived/' 
and  was  going  to  marry  Anne  Bardon. 

The  excitement  created  by  his  defence  of  Lewin  was 
nothing  to  that  which  now  raged  in  Rye  and  Peasmarsh. 
Reuben  was  besieged  by  the  curious,  who  found  relief 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  387 

for  a  slight  alloy  of  envy  by  pointing  out  how  un- 
accountable well  the  young  man  had  done  for  himself  by 
running  away. 

"  Reckon  you  dudn't  think  as  how  it  'ud  turn  out  lik 
this,  or  you  wudn't  have  been  in  such  tedious  heart 
about  it." 

"  I  can't  say  as  I'm  pleased  at  his  marrying  Miss 
Bardon,"  Reuben  would  say.  "  She's  ten  year  older 
than  he  if  she's  a  day.  'Twas  she  who  asked  him,  I 
reckon.  He  could  have  done  better  fur  himself  if  he'd 
stayed  at  hoame." 

§3- 

Reuben  had  bought  thirty-five  more  acres  of  Boarzell 
in  '81,  and  thirty  in  '84.  The  first  piece  was  on  the 
Flightshot  side  of  the  Moor,  by  Cheat  Land,  the  second 
stretched  from  the  new  ground  by  Totease  over  to  Burnt- 
barns.  Now  only  about  fifty  acres,  including  the  Fair- 
place  and  the  crest,  remained  to  be  won  outside  the 
Grandturzel  inclosure.  Bardon  publicly  announced  his 
intention  never  to  sell  the  Fair-place  to  Backfield. 
Flightshot  and  Odiam  had  not  been  drawn  together  by 
Richard's  marriage.  At  first  Reuben  had  feared  that 
the  Squire  might  take  liberties  on  the  strength  of  it,  and 
had  been  stiffer  than  ever  in  his  unavoidable  intercourse 
with  the  Manor.  But  Bardon  had  been,  if  anything, 
stiffer  still.  He  thoroughly  disapproved  of  Backfield 
as  an  employer  of  labour — some  of  his  men  were  housed, 
with  their  families,  in  two  old  barns  converted  into 
cottages  at  the  cheapest  rate — and  as  he  was  too  hard 
up  to  refuse  to  sell  him  Boarzell,  he  could  express  his 
disgust  only  by  his  attitude.  Fine  shades  of  manner 
were  apt  to  be  lost  on  Reuben,  but  about  the  refusal 
to  sell  the  Fair-place  there  could  be  no  mistake. 

Meantime  he  cast  covetous  and  hopeful  eyes  on  the 
Grandturzel  inclosure.  Realf  was  doing  nothing  with  it, 
and  his  affairs  were  not  so  prosperous  as  they  used  to  be. 


388  SUSSEX    GORSE 

His  abandonment  of  the  struggle  had  not  changed  his 
luck,  and  a  run  of  bad  luck — the  usual  farmer's  tale  of 
poor  harvests,  dead  cows,  blighted  orchards,  and  low 
prices — had  plunged  Grandturzel  nearly  as  deep  as 
Odiam  had  once  been.  Realf  had  shown  himself  with- 
out recuperative  powers  ;  he  economised,  but  ineffi- 
ciently, and  Reuben  foresaw  that  the  day  would  come 
when  he  would  be  forced  to  part  with  some  of  his  land. 
He  was  in  no  immediate  hurry  for  this,  as  he  would  be 
all  the  readier  to  spend  his  money  in  a  few  years'  time, 
but  occasionally  he  gave  himself  the  treat  of  going  up  to 
the  Grandturzel  inclosure  and  inspecting  it  from  the 
fence,  planning  exactly,  what  he  would  do  with  it  when 
it  was  his. 

More  than  once  Realf  and  Tilly  saw  him  in  the 
distance,  a  tall,  sinister  figure,  haunting  their  northern 
boundaries. 

"  Faather's  after  our  land,"  said  Tilly,  and  shuddered. 

§4- 

The  little  boys  grew  big  and  went  to  school.  This 
time  it  was  not  to  the  dame's  school  in  the  village,  for 
that  had  collapsed  before  the  new  board-school  which 
had  risen  to  madden  Reuben's  eyes  with  the  spectacle  of 
an  educated  populace.  They  went  to  Rye  Grammar 
School  and  learned  Latin  and  Greek  like  gentlemen. 
There  was  something  new  in  Reuben's  attitude  towards 
these  boys,  for  his  indulgence  had  deeper  roots  than 
expediency.  Sometimes  of  an  evening  he  would  go  to 
the  bottom  of  the  Totease  lane,  where  it  joins  the 
Peasmarsh  road,  and  wait  there  for  his  sons'  return. 
They  would  see  him  afar  off,  and  run  to  meet  him,  and 
they  would  all  three  walk  home  together,  arm-in-arm 
perhaps. 

He  would  have  been  exceedingly  indignant  if  in 
bygone  days  anyone  had  ever  hinted  that  he  did  not 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  389 

love  the  sons  and  daughters  whom  he  had  beaten, 
kicked  out  of  doors,  frustrated,  suppressed,  or  driven  to 
calamity.  All  the  same,  he  acknowledged  that  there 
was  a  difference  between  his  feelings  towards  Rose's 
children  and  Naomi's.  Though  Naomi  was  the  wife 
more  pleasant  to  remember,  Rose's  were  the  children  he 
loved  best.  They  had  not  grown  up  in  the  least  like  her, 
and  he  was  glad  of  that,  for  he  would  have  hated  to 
confront  again  her  careless,  lovely  face,  or  the  provoking 
little  teeth  of  her  smile  ;  they  were  Backfields,  dark  of 
hair  and  swarthy  of  skin,  David  with  grey  eyes,  William 
with  brown. 

When  he  saw  them  running  along  the  lane  from 
school,  or  tramping  the  fields  together — they  were 
always  together — or  helping  with  the  hops  or  the  hay, 
his  heart  would  stir  with  a  warm,  unwonted  sense  of 
fatherhood,  not  just  the  proud  paternal  impulse  which 
had  visited  him  when  he  held  his  new-born  babies  in  his 
arms,  but  something  belonging  more  to  the  future  than 
the  present,  to  the  days  when  they  should  carry  on 
Odiam  after  his  death.  For  the  first  time  he  had  sons 
whom  he  looked  upon  not  merely  as  labourers  to  help 
him  in  his  work,  but  as  men  created  in  his  own  image  to 
inherit  that  work  and  reap  its  fruits  when  he  was  gone. 

He  was  pleased  to  see  their  evident  love  of  the  farm. 
They  begged  him  not  to  keep  them  too  long  at  school, 
for  they  wanted  to  come  home  and  work  on  Odiam.  So 
he  took  David  away  when  he  was  sixteen,  and  William 
when  he  was  fifteen  the  next  year. 

Meantime  it  seemed  as  if  in  spite  of  his  absorption  in 
his  new  family  he  was  not  to  be  entirely  cut  off  from 
the  old.  In  the  summer  of  '87,  just  after  the  Jubilee, 
he  had  a  letter  from  Richard,  announcing  that  he  and 
his  wife  were  coming  for  a  week  or  so  to  Rye.  Reuben 
had  not  heard  of  Richard  for  some  years,  and  had  not 
seen  him  since  he  left  Odiam — he  had  been  asked  to  the 
wedding,  but  had  refused  to  go.  Now  Richard  expressed 


390  SUSSEX    GORSE 

the  hope  that  he  would  soon  see  his  father.  His  was  a 
nature  that  mellows  and  softens  in  prosperity,  and 
though  he  had  not  forgotten  the  miseries  of  his  youth, 
he  was  too  happy  to  let  them  stand  between  him  and 
Reuben  now  that  they  were  only  memories. 

Anne  was  not  so  disposed  to  forgive — she  had  her 
brother's  score  as  well  as  her  husband's  to  settle,  and 
concealed  from  no  one  that  she  thought  her  father-in- 
law  a  brutal  and  conscienceless  old  slave-driver  whose 
success  was  a  slur  on  the  methods  of  Providence.  She 
refused  to  accompany  Richard  on  his  first  visit  to 
Odiam,  but  spent  the  afternoon  at  Flightshot,  while  he 
tramped  with  Reuben  over  the  land  that  had  once 
been  so  hateful  to  him. 

Reuben,  though  he  would  not  have  confessed  it,  was 
much  taken  with  his  son's  appearance.  Richard  looked 
taller,  which  was  probably  because  he  held  himself 
better,  more  proudly  erect ;  his  face  seemed  also  subtly 
changed ;  he  had  almost  a  legal  profile,  due  partly  no 
doubt  to  a  gold-rimmed  pince-nez.  He  looked  astonish- 
ingly clean-shaven,  he  wore  good  clothes,  and  his  hands 
were  slim  and  white,  not  a  trace  of  uncongenial  work 
remaining.  He  had  quite  lost  his  Sussex  accent,  and 
Reuben  vaguely  felt  that  he  was  a  credit  to  him. 

Their  attitude,  at  first  constrained,  soon  became  more 
cordial  than  either  would  have  thought  possible  in 
earlier  days.  Richard  made  no  tactless  references  to 
his  brothers  and  sisters,  and  admired  and  praised  every- 
thing, even  the  pigsties  that  had  used  to  make  him 
sick.  They  went  out  into  the  fields  and  inspected  the 
late  lambs,  Richard  showing  that  he  had  lost  every 
trace  of  shepherd-lore  that  had  ever  been  his.  His 
remarks  on  shearing  gave  Reuben  a  very  bad  opinion 
of  the  English  Bar ;  however,  they  parted  in  a  riot  of 
mutual  civility,  and  Richard  asked  his  father  to  dine 
with  him  at  the  Mermaid  in  a  couple  of  days. 

Anne  was  furious  when  she  heard  of  the  invitation. 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  391 

"  You  know  I  don't  want  to  meet  your  father — and 
I'm  sure  hell  disgrace  us." 

"  He's  more  likely  to  amuse  us,"  said  Richard ;  "  he's 
a  character,  and  I  shall  enjoy  studying  him  for  the  first 
time  from  an  unbiassed  view-point." 

"  It  won't  be  unbiassed  if  he  disgraces  us." 

However,  Reuben  did  not  disgrace  them.  On  the 
contrary,  more  than  one  admiring  glance  drifted  to  the 
Backfields'  table,  and  remarks  were  overheard  about 
"  that  picturesque  old  man."  Reuben  had  dressed  him- 
self with  care  in  a  suit  of  dark  grey  cloth  and  the  flowered 
waistcoat  he  had  bought  when  he  married  Rose.  His 
collar  was  so  high  and  stiff  that  he  could  hardly  get  his 
chin  over  it,  his  [hair  was  brushed  and  oiled  till  its 
grey  thickness  shone  like  the  sides  of  a  man-o1- 
war,  and  his  hands  looked  quite  clean  by  artificial 
light. 

Richard  had  invited  his  young  half-brothers  too,  for 
they  had  been  at  school  when  he  visited  Odiam.  They 
struck  him  as  quite  ordinary-looking  boys,  dressed  in 
modern  reach-me-downs,  and  only  partially  inheriting 
their  father's  good  looks.  As  for  them,  they  were 
cowed  and  abashed  past  all  words.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  this  resplendent  being  in  the  white  shirt-front  and 
gold-rimmed  eye-glasses  was  their  brother,  and  the 
lady  with  the  hooked  nose  and  the  diamonds  their 
sister-in-law.  They  scarcely  ventured  to  speak,  and  were 
appalled  by  the  knives  and  forks  and  glasses  that  lay 
between  them  and  their  dinner. 

Reuben  too  was  appalled  by  them,  but  would  not  for 
worlds  have  shown  it.  He  attacked  the  knives  and 
forks  with  such  vigour  that  he  did  not  get  really  in- 
volved in  them  till  the  joint,  and  as  he  refused  no  drink 
the  waiter  offered  he  soon  had  all  his  glasses  harmlessly 
occupied.  Nor  was  he  at  a  loss  for  conversation.  He 
was  resolved  that  neither  Richard  nor  Anne  should 
ignore  the  greatness  of  his  farm  ;  if  only  he  could  stir 


392  SUSSEX   GORSE 

up  a  spark  of  home-sickness  in  his  son's  white-shirted 
breast,  his  triumph  would  be  complete. 

"  I  reckon  I'm  through  wud  my  bad  luck  now — 
Odiam's  doing  valiant.  I'm  shut  of  all  the  lazy-bones, 
Grandturzel's  beat,  and  I've  naun  to  stand  agaunst 
me." 

"  What  about  Nature  ?  "  asked  Richard,  readjusting 
his  pince-nez  and  thrusting  forward  his  chin,  whereby 
it  was  always  known  in  court  that  he  meant  to  "  draw 
out  "  the  witness. 

"  Nature  !  "  snorted  Reuben — "  wot's  Nature,  I'd 
lik  to  know  ?  " 

"  The  last  word  on  most  subjects,"  said  Richard. 

"  Well,  is  it  ?  I  reckon  it  aun't  the  last  word  on 
your  wife." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !  " — Anne's  chin  came  forward 
so  like  Richard's  that  one  might  gather  he  had  borrowed 
the  trick  from  her. 

"  Well,  'carding  to  Nature,  ma'am,  and  saving  your 
presence,  you're  forty-five  year  if  you're  a  day.  I 
remember  the  very  'casion  you  wur  born.  Well,  if  I 
may  be  so  bold,  you  doan't  look  past  thirty.  How's 
that  ?  Just  because  you  know  some  dodges  worth  two 
of  Nature's,  you've  a  way  of  gitting  even  wud  her.  Now 
if  a  lady  can  bust  Nature  at  her  dressing-taable,  I  reckon 
I  can  bust  her  on  my  farm." 

"  This  is  most  interesting,"  said  Anne  icily,  raising 
her  lorgnette  and  looking  at  Reuben  as  if  he  were  a  bad 
smell. 

"  He  means  to  be  complimentary,"  said  Richard. 

"  Reckon  I  do  !  "  cried  Reuben  genially,  warmed  by 
various  liquors — "  naun  shall  say  I  doan't  know  a  fine 
woman  when  I  see  one.  And  I  reckon  as  me  and  my 
darter-in-law  are  out  after  the  saum  thing — and  that's 
the  beating  of  Nature,  wot  you  seem  to  set  such  a  store 
by,  Richard." 

"  Well,  she'll  have  you  both  in  the  end,  anyhow." 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  393 

"  She  !   no — she  woan't  git  me." 

"  She'll  get  you  when  you  die." 

"  Oh,  I  doan't  count  that — that's  going  to  good 
earth/' 

"  Perhaps  she'll  get  you  before  then." 

Reuben  banged  the  table  with  his  fist. 

"  I'm  hemmed  if  she  does.  She'd  have  got  me  long 
ago  if  she'd  ever  been  going  to — when  I  wur  young  and 
my  own  hot  blood  wur  lik  to  betray  me.  But  I  settled 
her  then,  and  I'll  settle  her  to  the  end  of  time.  Mark 
my  words,  Richard  my  boy,  there's  always  some  way 
of  gitting  even  wud  her.  Wot's  nature  ? — nature's  a 
thing ;  and  a  man's  a — why  he's  a  man,  and  he  can 
always  go  one  better  than  a  thing.  Nature  maakes 
potato-blight,  so  man  maakes  Bordeaux  spray ;  nature 
maakes  calf -husk,  so  man  maakes  linseed  oil ;  nature 
maakes  lice,  so  man  maakes  lice-killer.  Man's  the  better 
of  nature  all  along,  and  I  doan't  mind  proving  it." 

Having  thus  delivered  himself  under  the  combined 
fire  of  the  lorgnette  and  the  pince-nez,  Reuben  poured 
himself  out  half  a  tumblerful  of  creme  de  menthe  and 
drank  the  healths  of  them  both  with  their  children, 
whereat  Anne  rose  quickly  from  the  table  and  sought 
refuge  in  the  drawing-room. 

It  was  after  ten  o'clock  when  her  father-in-law  and 
his  two  silent  boys  climbed  into  their  trap  and  started 
homewards  over  the  clattering  cobbles  of  Mermaid 
Street.  In  the  trap  the  two  silent  boys  found  their 
tongues,  and  fell  to  discussing  their  brother  Richard  in 
awestruck  voices.  They  whispered  about  his  dinner, 
his  wife,  his  hands,  his  eye-glasses,  his  voice,  while  old 
Dorrington  picked  his  way  up  Playden  Hill  in  the  white 
starshine.  Reuben  heard  them  as  if  in  a  dream  as  he 
leaned  forward  over  the  reins,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Capella, 
bright  and  cold  above  Bannister's  Town.  He  had  drunk 
more  liberally  and  more  variously  than  he  had  ever 
drunk  in  his  life,  but  he  carried  his  liquor  well,  and  all 


394  SUSSEX    GORSE 

he  was  conscious  of  was  a  slight  exaltation,  a  feeling  of 
triumph,  as  if  all  these  huddled  woods,  lightless  farms, 
and  cold  winking  stars  were  in  some  strange  way  his 
by  conquest,  the  tokens  of  his  honour.  The  wind  lapped 
round  him,  baffing  at  his  neck — it  sighed  in  the  woods, 
and  rocked  them  gently  towards  the  east.  In  the  south 
Orion  hung  above  Stonelink,  with  Sirius  at  the  end  of 
his  sword  .  .  .  the  constellation  of  the  Ram  was  high  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  his  sons'  voices  floated  up  to  him  in 
his  dream. 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  like  Richard,  Bill." 

"  So  do  I — but  I  reckon  we  never  shall." 

"  Not  if  we  stick  to  the  farm.  Did  you  notice  that 
ring  on  his  little  finger  ?  " 

"  Yes,  quite  a  plain  one,  but  it  looked  justabout 
fine." 

"  And  he  had  a  gold  watch-chain  across  his  waist- 
coat." 

"  I  reckon  he's  done  well  fur  himself  by  running  away." 

"  Yes,  if  he'd  stayed  he'd  never  have  married  Miss 
Bardon  and  had  his  name  in  all  the  papers." 

"  We'll  never  do  anything  fur  ourselves  if  we  stay  at 
Odiam." 

"  No — but  we'll  have  to  stay.  Faather  will  make 
us." 

"  He  couldn't  make  Richard  stay." 

Reuben  listened  as  if  in  a  nightmare — the  blood  in 
his  veins  seemed  to  turn  to  ice.  He  could  hardly  believe 
his  ears. 

"  Richard's  made  his  fortune  by  quitting  Odiam. 
'Tis  a  good  place,  but  he'd  never  have  done  half  so 
valiant  for  himself  if  he'd  stayed." 

Reuben  pulled  himself  together,  and  swinging  round 
cuffed  both  speakers  unaccustomedly. 

"  Doan't  let  me  hear  another  word  of  that  hemmed 
nonsense.  If  you  think  as  Richard's  bettered  himself 
by  running  away  from  Odiam,  you're  unaccountable 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  395 

mistaken.  Wot's  a  dirty  lawyer  compared  wud  a  farmer 
as  farms  three  hundred  acres,  and  owns  'em  into  the 
bargain  ?  All  my  boys  have  busted  and  ruined  them 
selves  by  running  away — Richard's  the  only  one  that's 
done  anything  wotsumdever  .  .  .  and  if  he's  done  well, 
there's  one  as  has  done  better,  and  that's  his  faather 
wot  stayed  at  home." 

§5- 

About  three  years  later  Sir  Ralph  Bardon  died.  He 
died  of  typhus  caught  on  one  of  Reuben's  insanitary 
cottages,  where  he  had  been  nursing  a  sick  boy.  The 
village  was  inclined  to  look  upon  him  as  a  martyr  and 
Reuben  as  his  murderer,  but  Reuben  himself  preserved 
a  contemptuous  attitude.  "  If  I'd  wanted  anything  as 
much  as  he  wanted  them  houses  o'  mine,  I'm  hemmed 
if  I  wudn't  have  had  'em,"  he  said,  "  and  all  he  could 
do  wur  to  die  of  'em  " — and  he  spat. 

Sir  Ralph  had  never  married  and  there  was  no  direct 
heir  ;  Anne  was  about  as  likely  to  produce  offspring  as 
a  Latin  grammar,  and  the  property  went  to  a  distant 
cousin,  Eustace  Fleet.  The  very  name  of  Bardon  was 
now  extinct.  For  two  hundred  years  it  had  been 
coupled  with  Flightshot  and  Whig  politics  and  the  idea 
of  a  gentleman,  till  the  last  had  finally  been  the  down- 
fall of  the  other  two.  The  race  of  Bardon  had  died  of  its 
own  virtues. 

Reuben's  hopes  of  the  Fair-place  now  revived,  and  he 
at  once  approached  the  new  Squire  with  a  view  to 
purchase  ;  but  Sir  Eustace  turned  out  to  be  quite  as 
wrong-headed  as  Sir  Ralph  on  the  matter  of  popular 
rights. 

"  Of  course  I  know  the  Fair  has  no  legal  title  to  this 
ground,  but  one  must  respect  public  feeling.  I  will  sell 
you  the  forty  acres  adjoining  the  crest  with  pleasure, 
Mr.  Backfield,  they  are  no  use  to  me,  and  you  certainly 
seem  to  do  wonders  with  the  land  when  you  get  it — but 


396  SUSSEX    GORSE 

the  Place  itself  must  be  preserved  for  the  people.    I'm 
sure  you  understand/1 

Reuben  didn't,  nor  pretended  that  he  did. 

He  started  licking  his  forty  acres  into  shape,  with 
many  inward  vows  that  he  would  have  the  rest  of  them 
soon,  he  was  hemmed  if  he  didn't.  He  was  on  the  high 
ground  now,  he  could  throw  a  stone  into  the  clump  of 
firs  which  still  mocked  his  endeavours.  The  soil  was  all 
hard  and  flinty,  matted  with  heather  roots  and  the 
fibres  of  gorse.  Reuben's  men  grumbled  and  cursed  as 
the  earth  crumbled  and  rattled  against  their  spades, 
which  sometimes  broke  on  the  big  flints  and  bits  of  lime- 
stone. They  scoffed  incredulously  when  old  Beatup 
told  them  that  the  lower  pastures  and  the  Totease 
oatfields  had  once  been  like  this. 

Boarzell  was  almost  unrecognisable  now.  When  one 
climbed  the  Forstal  Hill  behind  Peasmarsh  and  looked 
southward,  one  no  longer  saw  a  great  roughness  of  Moor 
couching  like  something  wild  and  untrapped  in  the 
midst  of  the  tame  fields  and  domestic  cottages.  The 
fields  had  licked  up  its  sides  till  all  they  had  left  was  the 
brown  and  golden  crest  with  its  central  clump  of  firs. 
Behind  this  to  the  north  was  the  Grandturzel  inclosure, 
but  Reuben's  land  was  nibbling  round  the  edge  of  it, 
and  everyone  knew  that  Grandturzel  would  not  be  able 
to  hold  out  much  longer. 

Opinion  in  Peasmarsh  was  divided.  There  was  a 
general  grudging  admiration  of  the  man  who  seemed 
able,  in  defiance  of  the  Scriptures,  to  make  Leviathan 
his  servant.  No  one  could  deny  that  Backfield  had 
performed  a  job  which  the  neighbourhood  from  the 
first  had  declared  to  be  impossible.  He  was  disliked — 
not  because  anyone  particularly  envied  him  the  land 
he  bought  so  eagerly  and  so  strenuously  shaped,  but 
because  of  his  utter  disregard  of  what  other  men  prized 
and  his  willingness  to  sacrifice  it  for  the  sake  of  what 
they  did  not  prize  at  all.  He  was  a  living  insult  to  their 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  397 

hearths,  their  homes,  their  wives,  their  children,  their 
harmless  recreations,  the  delights  of  their  flesh,  all  those 
things  which  he  had  so  readily  set  aside  to  win  his  great 
ambition.  It  was  not  for  what  he  wanted  that  they 
hated  him  so  much  as  for  the  things  he  did  not  want. 

However,  everyone  viewed  with  dislike  and  suspicion 
his  covetous  eye  cast  on  the  Fair-place.  He  might  have 
the  rest  of  Boarzell  and  welcome,  for  no  other  man  had 
any  use  for  flints,  but  the  Fair  was  sacred  to  them 
through  the  generations,  and  they  gauged  his  sacrilegious 
desire  to  rob  them  of  it  for  his  own  ends.  He  might  have 
the  Grandturzel  inclosure,  though  all  the  village  sym- 
pathised with  the  beaten  Realf — beaten,  they  said, 
because  he  hadn't  it  in  him  to  be  as  hard-hearted  as  the 
old  Gorilla,  and  sacrifice  his  wife  and  children  to  his 
farm — but  they  would  far  rather  see  Grandturzel 
swallowed  up  than  Boarzell  Fair. 

When  his  failure  to  buy  the  crest  became  known  there 
were  great  rejoicings  throughout  Peasmarsh.  The  Fair 
that  year  was  more  than  usually  crowded,  and  the 
merriment  was  increased  by  the  sight  of  Reuben  stalk- 
ing^among  the  booths,  and  glaring  at  them  as  if  he 
wished  them  all  at  blazes. 

§6. 

The  boys  were  now  sixteen  and  eighteen,  fine,  manly 
young  fellows,  working  cheerfully  on  Odiam  and  rejoic- 
ing their  father's  heart.  Reuben  watched  over  them 
sometimes  with  an  odd  kind  of  anxiety — they  were  so 
satisfactory  that  he  felt  it  could  not  last.  He  re- 
membered that  conversation  he  had  overheard  in  the 
trap  on  the  way  home  from  Rye,  and  though  nothing 
had  happened  since  to  remind  him  of  it  or  cause  him  fresh 
alarm,  he  could  never  quite  shake  off  the  cold  thrills  it 
had  given  him. 

[^Besides,  David  and  William  had  come  to  a  dangerous 
age,  they  were  beginning  to  form  opinions  and  ideas  of 


398  SUSSEX    GORSE 

their  own,  they  were  beginning  to  choose  their  own 
friends  and  pastimes.  But  what  Reuben  distrusted  most 
was  their  affection  for  each  other,  it  was  more  funda- 
mental to  his  anxieties  than  any  outside  independence. 
From  childhood  they  had  been  inseparable,  but  in  past 
years  he  had  put  this  down  to  the  common  interests  of 
their  play,  for  there  were  few  boys  of  their  own  age  on 
the  neighbouring  farms.  But  now  they  were  grown  up 
the  devotion  persisted — they  still  did  everything 
together,  work  or  play.  Reuben  knew  that  they  had 
secrets  from  him,  their  union  gave  him  a  sense  of  isola- 
tion. They  were  fond  of  him,  but  he  was  not  to  them 
what  they  were  to  each  other,  and  his  remoteness  seemed 
to  grow  with  the  years. 

In  his  alarm  he  made  plans  to  separate  them.  He 
discovered  that  the  big  attic  they  slept  in  was  not 
healthy,  and  moved  their  beds  to  two  rooms  divided 
by  his  own.  He  now  felt  that  he  had  put  an  end  to 
those  bedtime  conferences  which  must  have  done  so 
much  to  unite  the  brothers  and  set  him  at  a  distance. 

His  vigilance  increased  when  their  first  love  affairs 
began.  At  first  they  would  gabble  innocently  to  him 
about  pretty  girls  they  had  seen  in  Rye,  but  they  soon 
found  out  such  conversation  was  most  unwelcome. 
Reuben  looked  upon  love  as  the  biggest  curse  and  snare 
of  life  ;  if  David  and  William  fell  in  love  they  would 
lose  interest  in  Odiam,  they  would  do  something  silly 
like  Robert,  or  mad  like  Caro,  or  bad  like  Rose.  Love 
was  the  enemy  of  Odiam,  and  Reuben  having  trodden 
it  down  himself  was  not  going  to  see  it  rise  and  stamp 
on  his  boys.  He  gave  them  the  benefit  of  his  experience 
in  no  measured  terms  : 

"  If  you  fall  in  love  wud  a  gal  you  can't  say  no  to  her, 
and  she'll  find  it  out  lamentable  soon.  When  either  of 
you  boys  finds  a  nice  strong,  sensible  gal,  wud  a  bit  o' 
money,  and  not  self-willed,  such  as  'ull  be  a  good  darter- 
in-law  to  me,  I  shan't  have  nothing  to  say  agaunst  it. 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  399 

But  doan't  you  go  running  after  petticoats  and  maake 
fools  of  yourselves  and  disgrace  Odiam,  and  call  it  being 
in  love.  Love  maakes  you  soft,  and  if  you're  soft  you 
might  just  as  well  be  buried  fur  all  the  good  you're 
likely  to  do  yourself/' 

David  and  William  seemed  much  impressed,  and 
Reuben  congratulated  himself.  Two  days  later  he  went 
into  the  dairy  to  give  an  order,  and  saw  one  of  the  dairy 
girls  bending  over  a  pan  of  cream.  Something  in  her 
attitude  and  in  the  soft  curly  down  on  the  nape  of  her 
neck  reminded  him  of  Naomi  and  that  early  courting 
scene,  now  nearly  fifty  years  ago ;  but  before  he  had 
time  to  recall  it,  David  came  in  by  another  door,  not 
seeing  his  father,  and  running  lightly  up  to  the  dairy- 
maid suddenly  kissed  the  back  of  her  neck  and  ran  away. 
She  turned  round  with  a  scream,  just  in  time  to  see  him 
disappearing  through  one  door,  while  in  the  other  stood 
Reuben  with  grimly  folded  arms.  He  gave  her  a  week's 
wages  and  sent  her  away. 

"  Where's  Agnes  ?  "  asked  David  with  laboured 
carelessness  a  day  or  two  later. 

"  She  wasted  her  time,"  said  Reuben,  "  so  I  got  shut 
of  her." 

"  She's  gone  !  " 

"  Yes — back  to  her  parents  at  Tonbridge  " — and 
Reuben  grinned. 

David  said  no  more,  but  for  the  rest  of  the  day  he 
seemed  glum  and  abstracted.  In  the  evening  Reuben 
found  him  sitting  at  the  corn  accounts,  staring  through 
the  open  window  into  the  dusk. 

"  Wot's  fretting  you,  boy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Naun — I'm  thinking." 

Once  or  twice  Reuben  caught  him  in  the  same  mood, 
and  questioned  him.  But  David  still  answered  : 

"  I'm  thinking." 


400  SUSSEX    GORSE 


§7- 

That  autumn  David  and  William  went  to  Newhaven 
to  see  the  Rye  Football  Club  play  the  West  Sussex 
United.  They  had  more  than  once  gone  on  such  jaunts 
together,  and  on  this  occasion,  trains  being  difficult, 
they  put  up  for  the  night  at  a  small  hotel  near  the  port. 
It  was  the  first  time  they  had  spent  a  night  away  from 
Odiam,  and  a  certain  thrill  attached  to  it. 

When  the  match  was  over  they  went  for  a  stroll  on  the 
parade.  There  was  not  much  daylight  left,  but  the 
evening  was  warm,  and  the  parade  was  crowded  with 
saunterers.  The  young  men  were  glad  to  think  that 
there  was  no  homeward  train  to  be  caught,  or  account 
of  the  day's  doings  to  be  given  to  their  father.  He 
always  asked  minutely  how  they  spent  their  time,  and  it 
annoyed  them  a  little. 

To-night  they  would  walk  and  sit  on  the  parade  till 
supper  time,  then  go  to  some  coffee-house,  and  wind  up  at 
a  music-hall.  It  was  a  gay  programme  and  they  dis- 
cussed it  happily,  glanced  at  the  passers-by,  inspected 
the  empty  bandstand,  and  finally  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  seats  to  watch  the  fishing-boats  trim  their  lamps  in 
the  amethyst  fog  of  the  sea.  For  some  time  they  talked 
about  the  terrible  licking  the  United  had  given  Rye, 
arguing  about  this  or  that  player,  and  speculating  as  to 
what  would  be  the  Club's  fate  at  Hythe  next  week. 

It  was  David  who  drew  William's  attention  to  the 
woman  sitting  at  the  other  end  of  their  seat.  David 
piqued  himself  on  his  knowledge  of  the  world. 

"  She's  a — you  know,"  he  said. 

William  peeped  round  his  brother's  shoulder. 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  kid,  it's  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face 
— look  at  her  paint." 

Bill  looked,  his  eyes  opening  wider  than  ever.     She 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  401 

certainly  was  a  disreputable  female,  or  there  was  no 
judging  by  appearances.  She  wore  a  big  frowsy  hat 
trimmed  with  roses  and  ears  of  corn,  under  which  her 
thick  black  hair  was  held  up  by  several  tawdry  pins  ; 
her  face  was  more  lavishly  than  artistically  adorned 
with  rouge  and  blanc  de  perle,  and  she  pulled  a  cape  of 
lavender  velvet  closely  round  her  shoulders  as  if  she 
were  cold — which  might  well  have  been,  for,  as  far  as 
they  could  see,  her  bodice  consisted  almost  entirely 
of  lace. 

"  It's  early  for  her  to  be  prowling/'  said  the  man  of 
the  world.  "  I  reckon  she's  having  just  a  breath  of  fresh 
air  before  she  starts  work." 

"  Where'll  she  go  then  ?  "  asked  Billy. 

"  Oh,  to  the  more  crowded  streets,  round  about  the 
pubs  and  that." 

"  I  wonder  how  much  she  maakes  at  it." 

"  Not  much,  I  reckon.  She's  a  very  low-class  sort,  and 
not  at  all  young." 

"  Taake  care — she  might  hear  you." 

"  Oh,  don't  you  worry,"  said  the  lady  blandly ;  "  I 
like  listening  to  you,  and  I  was  only  waiting  till 
you'd  stopped  before  I  introduced  myself." 

Bill  gasped,  and  David  forgot  that  he  was  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  sidled  against  his  brother, 

"  Don't  you  know  me  ?  "  continued  the  siren,  tilting 
her  hat  back  from  her  face. 

"  No-o-o." 

"  Ever  heard  of  your  sister  Caro  ?  " 

Both  boys  started,  and  stared  at  her  in  utter  blank- 
ness. 

"  Well,  it  wasn't  to  be  expected  as  you'd  recognise  me. 
You  were  only  little  boys,  and  I've  changed  a  bit. 
Maybe  I  shouldn't  have  spoken  to  you — got  no  decent 
feelings,  some  people  would  say ;  but  I  just  about 
couldn't  help  i£.  I  heard  you  call  each  other  David  and 
Bill,  and  talk  about  Odiam  and  that,  so  I'd  have  known 
2  D 


402  SUSSEX    GORSE 

you  even  if  you  hadn't  been  the  dead  spit  of  your 
father." 

The  boys  still  didn't  seem  to  have  much  to  say,  so  she 
continued  : 

"  I  heard  of  your  brother  Pete  the  other  day — never 
knew  he'd  left  home  till  I  saw  his  name  down  to  preach 
at  Piddinghoe  Mission  Hall  last  month.  He's  called 
Salvation  Pete  now,  as  I  daresay  you  know,  and  I  half 
thought  of  going  to  hear  him,  only  times  are  so  bad  I 
couldn't  afford  an  evening  off.  When  did  he  leave 
Odiam  ? — I  should  like  some  news  of  home." 

"  He  quitted  years  ago,  when  we  were  little  chaps. 
Salvation  got  him." 

"  I  reckon  that  must  have  come  hard  on  faather — he 
always  was  unaccountable  set  on  Pete.  Heard  anything 
of  Tilly  lately  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing  particular.  But  faather's  going  to  buy 
the  Grandturzel  inclosure." 

"  And  Rose  ?  " 

"  Who's  Rose  ?  " 

"  Your  mother,  my  precious  innocents.  But  look 
here,  you  shall  ask  me  to  supper — it'll  only  be  doing  the 
decent  thing  by  me — and  you  shall  tell  me  about  them 
all  at  Odiam — as  used  to  be  at  Odiam,  rather,  for  I 
reckon  there's  nobody  but  yourselves  there  now." 

David  and  William  looked  at  each  other  uneasily  ; 
however,  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done,  and  also  a 
certain  excitement  and  curiosity  inspired  them.  So 
they  set  out  with  Caro  to  an  eating-house  chosen  by 
herself  in  a  small  fish-smelling  back  street.  They  were 
much  too  embarrassed  to  order  supper,  so  Caro  good- 
naturedly  did  this  for  them — fish  and  chips,  and  three 
bottles  of  six  ale. 

"  I  don't  often  come  here,"  she  said — "  this  is  a  bit 
too  classy  for  me.  I  go  mostly  to  the  coffee  stalls  down 
by  the  harbour.  You  mustn't  think  as  I'm  coining 
money  at  this,  you  know.  I  work  mostly  among  the 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  403 

fishermen,  and  they're  a  seedy  lot.  I  started  up  town, 
but  I'm  not  so  young  as  I  was,  and  sometimes  even  at 
the  harbour  I  find  it  unaccountable  hard  to  git  off." 

With  the  gas-light  flaring  on  her  raddled  face,  showing 
up  mercilessly  the  tawdriness  and  shoddiness  of  her 
clothes,  which  reeked  of  a  cheap  scent,  the  boys  did  not 
find  it  hard  to  believe  that  she  often  had  a  struggle  to 
"git  off" — indeed,  it  was  a  mystery  how  any  man, 
however  unfastidious,  however  fuddled,  could  kiss  or 
take  kisses  from  this  bundle  of  rags  and  bones  and  paint. 
Caro  seemed  to  notice  the  disparaging  look. 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  bit  off  colour  to-night,  but  I  can  tell  you 
I  was  a  fine  girl  when  I  went  away  with  Joe — and  all  the 
time  I  lived  with  him,  too,  first  at  the  Camber  and  then 
at  New  Romney  ;  there  was  many  as  'ud  have  been  proud 
to  git  me  from  him.  But  I  stuck  to  him  faithful,  I  did, 
till  one  morning  I  woke  up  and  found  him  gone,  off  on 
a  voyage  to  Australia — wonder  if  he  met  Robert — 
having  given  me  over  to  a  pal  of  his  for  five  pounds  and 
a  set  of  oilskins.  Oh,  I  can  tell  you  I  took  on  something 
awful — I  wasn't  used  to  men  in  those  days.  But  Joe's 
pal  he  was  a  decent  chap — there  was  nothing  the  matter 
with  him  save  that  he  wasn't  Joe.  He  was  unaccount- 
able good  to  me,  and  I  stayed  with  him  three  years — 
and  then  I  hooked  it,  scarcely  knew  why.  I  got  a  post 
as  barmaid  in  Seaford,  but  the  landlord  took  up  with 
me  and  his  missus  chucked  me  out.  And  now  I'm 
here." 

"  Have — have  you  been  here  long  ?  "  stammered 
David,  feeling  he  must  say  something. 

"  Three  year  or  so.  I  started  up  town.  But  we've 
spoken  enough  about  me.  Let's  hear  about  you,  and 
the  farm.  How's  Richard  ?  " 

The  boys  told  her;  they  described  their  prosperous 
brother  with  his  white  shirt-front,  his  pince-nez,  his 
ring,  and  his  high-born  wife.  As  they  talked  they  grew 
more  at  their  ease. 


404  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Well/'  said  Caro,  "  I  reckon  he  got  away  in  time." 

"  From  what  ?  " 

"  From  Odiam,  of  course.  I  stayed  too  long.  I 
stayed  till  I  was  half  killed  by  the  place.  If  I'd  gone 
off  as  a  young  girl  I  reckon  I'd  have  done  well  by  myself, 
but  I  waited  on  till  I  was  ready  to  take  anything  that 
was  going,  and  when  you're  like  that  it's  too  late." 

"  1  shouldn't  think  Richard  was  sorry  he  left." 

"  No — and  mark  you,  nor  am  I.  It  'ud  have  been 
worse  for  me  if  I'd  stayed.  I'm  miserable  in  a  different 
way  from  what  I  was  there — somehow  the  life's  easier. 
I'm  not  happy,  but  I'm  jolly.  I'm  not  good,  but  I'm 
pleasant-like.  It's  all  a  change  for  the  better.  See  ?  " 

"  Then  you  don't  wish  as  you  wur  back  again  ?  " 

"  Back  !  Back  with  faather  !  Not  me  !  Now  let's 
hear  some  more  about  him — does  he  ever  speak  to  you 
of  your  mother  ?  " 

For  the  rest  of  the  meal  they  discussed  the  absent 
ones — Rose,  Robert,  Albert,  Benjamin,  Tilly,  the  boys 
hearing  a  great  deal  that  had  never  come  to  their  ears 
before.  Caro  ordered  two  more  bottles  of  six,  and  in  the 
end  the  party  became  quite  convivial,  and  David  and 
William,  forgetting  the  strangeness  of  it  all,  were  sorry 
when  their  sister  at  last  stood  up  and  announced  that 
she  must  wobble  off  or  she'd  be  late. 

"  You'll  tell  father  you  met  me  ?  "  she  said  as  they 
left  the  eating-house. 

David  and  William  looked  at  each  other,  and  hesi- 
tated. 

"  You've  no  call  to  be  ashamed  of  me,"  said  Caro 
rather  irritably. 

"  We — we  aun't  ashamed  of  you." 

"  That's  right — for  you've  no  call  to  be.  I  was  driven 
to  this,  couldn't  help  myself.  Besides,  I'm  no  worse 
than  a  lot  of  women  wot  you  call  respectable — at  least, 
I  put  some  sort  of  a  price  on  myself,  if  it's  only  five 
shillings.  Now  good  night,  young  men,  and  thank  you 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  405 

for  a  very  pleasant  evening.  I  don't  suppose  as  you'll 
ever  see  me  again.  And  mind — you  tell  father  as,  no 
matter  the  life  I  lead  and  the  knocks  I  get,  I've  never 
once,  not  once,  regretted  the  day  I  ran  off  from  his  old 
farm.  Now  mind — you  tell  him  that." 

§8. 

The  boys  told  him.  Reuben  listened  in  silence  save 
for  one  ejaculation  of  "  the  dirty  bitch  !  " 

David  nudged  William. 

"  And  she  asked  us  particular  to  say  as  she'd  never 
regretted  the  day  she  left  Odiam,  or  wished  herself 
back  there,  nuther." 

"  She  wur  purty  saafe  to  say  that — for  who'd  have 
her  back,  I'd  lik  to  know  ?  Larmentable  creature  she 
always  wur,  spanneling  around  lik  a  mangy  cat.  Always 
thin  and  always  miserable — I'm  glad  to  be  shut  of  her. 
But  she  seemed  cheery  when  you  saw  her  ?  " 

"  Unaccountable  cheery — and  she  drank  three  bottles 
of  six  ale." 

"  Um,"  said  Reuben. 

The  boys  had  one  or  two  secret  talks  about  Caro. 
She  also  stimulated  that  habit  of  "  thinking  "  which 
their  father  so  thoroughly  disapproved  of.  Somehow 
their  encounter  with  her,  combined  with  their  encounter 
with  Richard,  seemed  to  have  modified  their  enthusiasm 
for  Odiam.  They  could  not  help  comparing  that  supper 
at  Newhaven  with  that  dinner  at  Rye,  and  wondering 
if  it  was  true  what  she  had  said  about  Richard  having 
got  away  in  time,  whereas  she  had  been  too  late. 

"  And  yet  she  was  glad  she'd  gone — she'd  rather  be 
free  too  late  than  not  at  all." 

"  Bill,  do  you  think  that  if  we  stay  here,  Odiam  'ull 
do  for  us  wot  it  did  for  Caro  ?  " 

"  I  doan't  think  so.  Faather  was  much  harder  on 
Caro  than  he  is  on  us." 


406  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  He's  not  hard  on  us — but  he's  unaccountable 
interfering  ;  it  maddens  me  sometimes/' 

"  Seems  as  if  he  didn't  trust  us — seems  sometimes  as 
if  he  was  afraid  we'd  go  off  like  the  others." 

"  Reckon  he  is — he  saw  how  we  envied  Richard." 

"  Davy,  it  'ud  be  cruel  of  us  to  go  and  leave  him." 

"  I  doan't  say  as  I  want  to  do  that." 

"  Besides,  it  aun't  likely  as  we'd  do  as  well  fur  our- 
selves as  Richard.  We've  no  Miss  Bardon  to  trouble 
about  us — reckon  we'd  come  to  grief  like  Albert." 

"  Maybe  we  would." 

§9- 

Four  years  later  Reuben  bought  the  farmstead  of 
Totease.  Brazier  died,  and  the  Manor,  anxious  as  usual 
for  ready  money,  put  up  his  farm  for  sale.  It  was  a 
good  place  of  about  sixty  acres,  with  some  beautiful 
hop  gardens  and  plenty  of  water.  Reuben  felt  that  it 
would  be  unwise  to  neglect  such  an  opportunity  for 
enlarging  the  boundaries  of  Odiam.  He  outbid  one  or 
two  small  farmers,  put  the  place  under  repair,  engaged 
more  hands,  and  set  to  work  to  develop  a  large  business 
in  hops. 

His  enthusiasm  was  immense ;  he  saw  quicker 
returns  from  hops  than  from  anything  else,  and  the 
sheltered  position  of  Totease  made  it  possible  to  cover 
the  whole  of  it  with  goldings  and  fuggles.  He  built  a 
couple  of  new  oasts  with  concrete  roofs,  and  announced 
his  intention  of  engaging  London  pickers  that  autumn. 
There  was  great  perturbation  at  the  Rectory— the 
Manor  had  long  since  abandoned  social  crusades — 
because  Reuben  housed  these  pickers  indiscriminately 
in  a  barn.  It  was  also  said  that  he  underpaid  them. 
The  rector  was  quite  insensible  to  his  argument  that 
if  a  man  were  fool  enough  to  work  for  two  shillings  a 
day,  why  should  wise  men  lose  money  by  preventing 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  407 

him  ?  Also  he  compelled  no  one  to  come,  so  the  indis- 
criminate sleepers  were  only,  so  to  speak,  volunteers — 
and  when  the  rector  persisted  he  became  coarse  on 
the  subject. 

His  temper  had  grown  a  little  difficult  of  late  years — 
it  had  never  been  a  particularly  pleasant  one,  but  it 
had  been  fierce  rather  than  quick.  His  sons  felt  un- 
easily that  they  were  partly  responsible  for  this — they 
irritated  him  by  asserting  their  independence.  Also  he 
suspected  them  of  a  lack  of  enthusiasm.  He  had  tried 
to  arrange  a  marriage  for  David  with  the  daughter  of 
the  new  farmer  at  Kitchenhour.  She  was  ten  years 
older  than  he,  and  not  strikingly  beautiful,  but  she  satis- 
fied Reuben's  requirements  by  being  as  strong  as  a 
horse  and  having  a  hundred  a  year  of  her  own.  His 
indignation  was  immense  when  David  refused  this 
prize. 

"  I  can't  abear  the  sight  of  her." 

"  You'll  git  used  to  her,  lad." 

"  Well,  I  want  something  better  than  that." 

"  She's  got  a  hundred  a  year,  and  that  'ud  maake  our 
fortunes  at  Odiam." 

"  Odiam's  doing  splendid — you  don't  want  no  more." 

"  I  justabout  do.  I  shan't  be  satisfied  till  I've  bought 
up  Grandturzel  saum  as  I've  bought  Tot  ease." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  sacrifice  myself  for  Odiam, 
and  you've  no  right  to  ask  me,  dad." 

"  If  I  haven't  got  a  right  to  ask  you  that,  wot  have  I, 
I'd  lik  to  know  ?  " 

§10. 

In  the  spring  of  '99  old  Jury  died  over  at  Cheat  Land. 
His  wife  had  died  a  year  or  two  earlier — Reuben  had 
meant  to  go  over  and  see  Alice,  but  the  untimely  calving 
of  a  new  Alderney  had  put  the  idea  entirely  out  of  his 
head.  On  this  occasion,  however,  he  attended  the 
funeral,  with  the  other  farmers  of  the  district,  and  at 


408  SUSSEX    GORSE 

the  churchyard  gate  had  a  few  words  with  Alice  before 
she  went  home. 

She  was  a  middle-aged  woman  now,  but  her  eyes 
were  as  bright  as  ever,  which  made  her  look  strangely 
young.  Her  hair  had  turned  very  prettily  grey,  she 
was  fatter  in  the  face,  and  on  the  whole  looked  well  and 
happy,  in  spite  of  her  father's  death.  She  told  him  she 
was  going  to  live  at  Rye — she  had  a  tiny  income,  derived 
from  Jury's  life  insurance,  and  she  meant  to  do  art 
needlework  for  an  ecclesiastical  firm.  Reuben  experi- 
enced a  vague  sense  of  annoyance — not  that  he  wanted 
her  to  be  unhappy,  but  he  felt  that  she  had  no  right  to 
happiness,  going  out  into  the  world,  poor  and  alone, 
her  parents  dead,  her  life's  love  missed.  .  .  . 

That  summer  the  country  was  shaken  by  rumours 
of  war,  Reuben ;  having  more  leisure  on  his  hands, 
spent  it  in  the  study  of  his  daily  paper.  He  could  now 
read  simple  sentences,  and  considered  himself  quite  an 
educated  man.  When  war  at  last  broke  out  in  South 
Africa  he  was  delighted.  It  was  the  best  of  all  possible 
wars,  organised  by  the  best  of  all  possible  Governments, 
under  the  best  of  all  possible  ministers.  Chamberlain 
became  his  hero — not  that  he  understood  or  sym- 
pathised with  his  Imperialism,  but  he  admired  him  for 
his  attitude  towards  the  small  nations.  He  hated  all 
talk  about  preserving  the  weak — such  was  not  nature's 
way,  the  way  of  farms ;  there  the  weakest  always  went 
to  the  wall,  and  he  could  not  see  why  different  methods 
should  obtain  in  the  world  at  large.  If  Reuben  had  been 
a  politician  he  would  have  kept  alive  no  sick  man  of 
Europe,  protected  no  down-trodden  Balkan  States. 
One  of  the  chief  reasons  why  he  wanted  to  see  the 
Boers  wiped  out  was  because  they  had  muddled  their 
colonisation,  failed  to  establish  themselves,  or  to  make 
of  the  arid  veldt  what  he  had  made  of  Boarzell. 

"  They're  no  good,  them  Boers,"  he  announced  at 
the  Cocks ;  "  there  they've  bin  fur  years  and  years,  and 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  409 

they  say  as  how  that  Transvaal's  lik  a  desert.  They've 
got  mizzling  liddle  farms  such  as  I  wudn't  give  sixpence 
for — and  all  that  gurt  veldt's  lik  the  palm  of  my  hand, 
naun  growing.  They  doan't  deserve  to  have  a  country." 

He  expressed  himself  so  eloquently  in  this  fashion 
that  the  member  for  the  Rye  division  of  Sussex — the 
borough  had  been  disenfranchised  in  '85 — asked  him  to 
speak  at  a  recruiting  meeting  at  the  Court  Hall.  Un- 
luckily Reuben's  views  on  recruiting  were  peculiar. 

"  Now's  your  chance,"  he  announced  to  the  assembled 
yokels ;  "  corn  prices  is  going  up,  and  every  man  who 
wants  to  do  well  by  himself  had  better  grub  his  pastures 
and  sow  grain.  Suppose  we  wur  ever  to  fight  the  French 
— who  are  looking  justabout  as  ugly  at  us  now  as  they 
did  in  Boney's  time — think  wot  it  'ud  be  if  we  had 
grain-stocks  in  the  country,  and  cud  settle  our  own 
prices.  My  advice  to  the  men  of  Rye  is  the  same  as 
wot  I  gave  in  this  very  hall  thirty-five  years  ago — sow 
grain,  and  grain,  and  more  grain." 

The  member,  the  colonel  of  the  volunteers,  and  others 
present,  pointed  out  to  Reuben  afterwards  that  the 
situation  was  military,  not  agricultural;  but  it  was 
characteristic  of  him  to  see  all  situations  from  the 
agricultural  point  of  view.  His  old  ideas  of  an  agri- 
cultural combine,  which  had  fallen  miserably  to  pieces 
in  '65,  now  revived  in  all  their  strength.  He  saw  East 
Sussex  as  a  country  of  organised  corn-growing,  Odiam 
at  the  head.  His  rather  eclectic  newspaper  reading  had 
impressed  him  with  the  idea  that  England  was  on  the 
verge  of  war  with  one  or  two  European  Powers,  notably 
the  French,  whose  ribald  gloatings  over  British  disasters 
stirred  up  all  the  fury  of  the  man  who  had  been  born 
within  range  of  the  Napoleonic  wars  and  bred  on  tales 
of  Boney  and  his  atrocities. 

He  was  dismayed  by  the  lack  of  local  enthusiasm. 
He  dug  up  one  or  two  of  his  own  pastures  and  planted 
wheat ;  he  even  sacrificed  ten  acres  of  his  precious  hops, 


410  SUSSEX    GORSE 

but  nobody  seemed  inclined  to  follow  his  example.  The 
neighbourhood  was  ornately  patriotic,  flags  flew  from 
the  oast-houses  at  Socknersh,  Union  Jacks  washed  to 
delicate  pastel  shades  by  the  chastening  rain — while 
the  Standard  misleadingly  proclaimed  that  the  Royal 
Family  was  in  residence  at  Burntbarns.  On  Odiam  the 
boys  sang  : 

"  Goodbye,  Dolly,  I  must  leave  you, 

Though  it  breaks  my  heart  to  go — 
Something  tells  me  I  am  wanted 

At  the  Front  to  drive  away  the  foe." 

Some  of  them  in  fact  did  go.    Others  remained,  and 
sang: 

"  Good-bye,  my  Bluebell,  farewell  to  you, 

One  last  long  look  into  your  eyes  of  blue — 
'Mid  camp-fires  gleaming,  'mid  shot  and  shell, 
I  will  be  dreaming  of  my  own  Bluebell." 


Quite  early  in  the  war  David  and  William  walked 
home  in  silence  after  seeing  a  troop-train  off  from  Rye, 
then  suddenly,  when  they  came  to  Odiam,  shook  hands. 

"  It's  our  chance/'  said  Bill. 

"  We've  waited  for  it  long  enough." 

"  I  couldn't  have  stood  much  more,  and  this  will  be  a 
good  excuse." 

"  The  old  man  'nil  take  on  no  end — wot  with  his  corn- 
growing  plans  and  that." 

"  Funny  how  he  never  seems  to  think  of  anything 
but  Odiam." 

"  Strikes  me  as  he's  mad — got  what  you  call  a  fixed 
idea,  same  as  mad  people  have." 

"  He's  sensible  enough — but  he's  unaccountable  hard 
to  live  with." 

"  Yes — he's  fair  made  me  hate  Odiam.  I  liked  the 
place  well  enough  when  I  was  a  little  lad,  but  he's  made 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  411 

me  sick  of  it.  It's  all  very  well  living  on  a  farm  and 
working  on  it,  but  when  you're  supposed  to  give  up  your 
whole  life  to  it  and  think  of  nothing  else,  well,  it's  too 
much." 

"  We  won't  tell  him  that,  though,  Davy — we'll  make 
out  as  it's  pure  patriotic  feeling  on  our  part." 

"  Yes  ;  I  don't  want  him  to  think  we're  set  on  getting 
away — but,  by  gum,  Bill !  we  are." 

"  If  this  war  hadn't  happened  we'd  have  had  to  have 
thought  of  something  else." 

So  they  went  and  broke  their  news  to  Reuben.  They 
were  careful  and  considerate — but  he  was  knocked  out 
by  the  blow. 

"  Going  ! — both  of  you  !  "  he  cried. 

"  We  feel  we've  got  to.  They  want  all  the  young 
men." 

"  But  you  could  help  your  country  just  as  well  by 
staying  at  hoame  and  growing  corn." 

'  You  can  grow  corn  without  us — we're  wanted  out 
there." 

"  But  you're  all  I've  got — one  go,  and  t'other  stay." 

"  No,  we  must  stick  together." 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know — you've  always  thought  more 
of  each  other  than  of  your  father  or  of  Odiam." 

"  Don't  say  that,  dad — we  care  for  you  very  much, 
and  we're  coming  back." 

"  There's  no  one  gone  from  here  as  has  ever  come 
back." 

For  the  first  time  they  noticed  something  of  the 
cracked  falsetto  of  old  age  in  his  voice,  generally  so 
firm  and  ringing.  Their  hearts  smote  them,  but  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation  was  stronger  than  pity. 
They  knew  now  for  certain  that  if  they  stayed  Odiam 
would  devour  them,  or  at  best  they  would  escape  maimed 
and  only  half  alive.  Either  they  must  go  at  once — in 
time,  like  Richard,  or  go  in  a  few  years — too  late,  like 
Caro.  Besides,  the  war  called  to  their  young  blood;  they 


412  SUSSEX    GORSE 

thought  of  guns  and  bayonets,  camp-fires  and  battle- 
fields, glory  and  victory.  Their  youth  called  them,  and 
even  their  father's  game  and  militant  old  age  could  not 
silence  its  bugles  and  fifes. 

The  next  day  they  left  Odiam  for  the  recruiting 
station  at  Rye.  Reuben  and  the  farm-hands  watched 
them  as  they  marched  off  whistling  "  Good-bye,  Dolly, 
I  must  leave  you/'  shaking  their  shoulders  in  all  the 
delight  of  their  new  freedom.  They  had  gone — as 
Albert  had  gone,  as  Robert,  as  Richard,  as  Tilly,  as 
Benjamin,  as  Caro,  as  Pete  had  gone.  Reuben  stood 
erect  and  stiff,  his  eyes  following  them  as  they  turned 
out  of  the  drive  and  disappeared  down  the  Peasmarsh 
road. 

When  they  were  out  of  sight  he  walked  slowly  to  the 
new  ground  near  the  crest  of  Boarzell,  which  was  being 
prepared  for  the  winter  wheat.  He  made  a  sign  to  the 
man  who  was  guiding  the  plough,  and  taking  the 
handles  himself,  shouted  to  the  team.  The  plough  went 
forward,  the  red  earth  turned,  sprinkled,  creamed  into 
long  furrows,  and  soothed  Reuben's  aching  fatherhood 
with  its  moist  fertile  smell.  It  was  the  faithful  earth, 
which  was  his  enemy  and  yet  his  comforter — which  was 
always  there,  though  his  children  forsook  him — the  good 
earth  to  which  he  would  go  at  last. 

§12. 

Reuben  was  now  alone  at  Odiam — for  the  first  time. 
Of  course  Harry  was  with  him  still,  but  Harry  did  not 
count.  There  was  an  extraordinary  vitality  in  him, 
none  the  less  ;  it  was  as  if  the  energies  unused  by  his 
brain  were  diverted  to  keep  together  his  crumbled  body. 
He  grew  more  shrivelled,  more  ape-like  every  day,  and 
yet  he  persisted  in  life.  He  still  scraped  at  his  fiddle, 
and  would  often  sit  for  hours  at  a  time  mumbling — 
"  Only  a  poor  old  man — a  poor  old  man — old  man — 
old  man,"  over  and  over  again,  sometimes  with  a 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  413 

sudden  shrill  cry  of  "  Salvation's  got  me  I  "  or  "  Another 
wedding  ! — we're  always  having  weddings  in  this  house." 
His  brother  avoided  him,  and  did  his  best  to  ignore  him 
— he  was  the  scar  of  an  old  wound. 

His  loneliness  seemed  to  drive  Reuben  closer  to  the 
earth.  He  still  had  that  divine  sense  of  the  earth  being 
at  once  his  enemy  and  his  only  friend.  Just  as  the 
gorse  which  murders  the  soil  with  its  woody  fibres 
sweetens  all  the  air  with  its  fragrance,  so  Reuben  when 
he  fought  the  harsh  strangling  powers  of  the  ground 
also  drank  up  its  sweetness  like  honey.  He  did  not  work 
so  hard  as  formerly,  though  he  could  still  dig  his  furrow 
with  the  best  of  them — he  knew  that  the  days  had  come 
when  he  must  spare  himself.  But  he  maintained  his 
intercourse  with  the  earth  by  means  of  long  walks  in 
the  surrounding  country. 

Hitherto  he  had  not  gone  much  afield.  If  affairs 
had  called  him  to  Battle,  Robertsbridge,  or  Cran- 
brook,  he  had  driven  or  ridden  there  as  a  matter 
of  business — he  had  seldom  walked  in  the  more  distant 
bye-lanes,  or  followed  the  field-paths  beyond  the 
marshes.  Now  he  tramped  over  nearly  the  whole 
country  within  a  radius  of  ten  miles — he  was  a  tireless 
walker,  and  when  he  came  home  knew  only  the  healthy 
fatigue  which  is  more  delight  than  pain  and  had  re- 
warded his  dripping  exertions  as  a  young  man. 

He  would  walk  southwards  to  Eggs  Hole  and  Dingles- 
den,  then  across  the  Tillingham  marshes  to  Coldblow 
and  Pound  House,  then  over  the  Brede  River  to  Snail- 
ham,  and  turning  up  by  Guestling  Thorn,  look  down  on 
Hastings  from  the  mill  by  Batchelor's  Bump.  Or  he 
would  go  northwards  to  strange  ways  in  Kent,  down 
to  the  Rother  Marshes  by  Methersham  and  Moon's 
Green,  then  over  to  Lambstand,  and  by  side-tracks  and 
bostals  to  Benenden — back  by  Scullsgate  and  Nineveh, 
and  the  lonely  Furnace  road. 

He  learned  to  love  the  moving  shadows  of  clouds 


414  SUSSEX    GORSE 

travelling  over  a  sunlit  view — to  love  ridged  distances 
fading  from  dark  bice,  through  blue,  to  misty  grey.  He 
used  to  watch  for  the  sparkle  of  light  on  far  cottage 
windows,  the  white  sheen  of  farmhouse  walls  and  the 
capped  turrets  of  oasts.  But  he  loved  best  of  all  to  feel 
the  earth  under  his  cheek  when  he  cast  himself  down, 
the  smell  of  her  teeming  sap,  the  sensation  that  he  lay 
on  a  kind  breast,  generous  and  faithful.  It  was  strange 
that  the  result  of  all  his  battles  should  be  this  sense  of 
perfect  union,  this  comfort  in  his  loneliness.  Reuben 
was  not  ashamed  at  eighty  years  old  to  lie  full  length 
in  some  sun-hazed  field,  and  stretch  his  body  over  the 
grass,  the  better  to  feel  that  fertile  quietness  and  moist 
freshness  which  is  the  comfort  of  those  who  make  the 
ground  their  bed. 

He  never  let  anyone  see  him  in  these  moments — 
somehow  they  were  almost  sacred  to  him,  the  religion 
of  his  godless  old  age.  But  soon  the  more  distant 
cottagers  came  to  know  him  by  sight,  and  watch  for 
the  tall  old  man  who  so  often  tramped  past  their  doors. 
He  always  walked  quickly,  his  head  erect,  a  stout  ash 
stick  in  his  hand.  He  was  always  alone — not  even  a 
dog  accompanied  him.  He  wore  dark  corduroys,  and 
either  a  wide-brimmed  felt  hat,  or  no  hat  at  all,  proud 
of  the  luxuriance  of  his  iron-grey  hair.  They  soon 
came  to  know  who  he  was. 

"  Tis  old  Mus'  Backfield  from  Odiam  farm  by  Peas- 
marsh.  They  say  as  he's  a  hard  man." 

"  They  say  as  he's  got  the  purtiest  farm  in  Sussex — 
he's  done  waonders  fur  Odiam,  surelye." 

"  But  his  wife  and  children's  run  away." 

"  They  say  he's  a  hard  man." 

"  And  he's  allus  aloan." 

"  He  doan't  seem  to  care  for  nobody — never  gives 
you  the  good  marnun." 

"  It's  larmentaable  to  see  an  old  feller  lik  that  all 
aloan,  wudout  friend  nor  kin." 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  415 

"  He's  straight  enough  in  spite  of  it  all — game  as  a 
youngster  he  is." 

§13. 

Meanwhile  the  South  African  War  dragged  its  muddled 
length  from  Stormberg  to  Magersfontein,  through 
Colenso  to  Spion  Kop.  It  meant  more  to  Reuben  than 
any  earlier  war — more  than  the  Crimea,  for  then  there 
were  no  newspaper  correspondents,  more  than  the 
Indian  Mutiny,  for  that  was  with  blacks,  or  the  Franco- 
Prussian,  for  that  was  between  furriners.  Besides,  there 
were  two  additional  factors  of  tremendous  importance 
— he  could  now  spell  out  a  good  deal  of  his  daily  paper, 
and  his  sons  were  both  fighting.  They  had  gone  out 
early  in  November,  and  were  very  good  about  writing 
to  him. 

They  could  afford  to  be  generous  now  they  were  free, 
so  they  sent  him  long  letters,  carefully  printed  out,  as  he 
could  not  read  running  hand.  They  told  him  wonderful 
stories  of  camps  and  bivouacs,  of  skirmishes  and  snip- 
ings.  They  enlarged  on  the  grilling  fierceness  of  the 
December  sun  which  had  burnt  their  faces  brick-red 
and  peeled  their  noses — on  the  flies  which  swarmed 
thicker  by  far  than  over  Odiam  midden — on  the  awful 
dysentery  that  grabbed  at  half  their  pals — on  the  hypo- 
critical Boers,  who  read  the  Bible  and  used  dum-dum 
bullets. 

They  came  safely  through  Magersfontein,  the  only 
big  encounter  in  which  they  were  both  engaged.  David 
was  made  a  sergeant  soon  afterwards.  Reuben  sent  them 
out  tobacco  and  chocolate,  and  contributed  to  funds 
for  supplying  the  troops  with  woollen  comforts.  He  felt 
himself  something  of  a  patriot,  and  would  talk  eagerly 
about  "  My  son  the  Sergeant/'  or  "  My  boys  out  at  the 
Front." 

He  was  very  busy  over  his  new  corn  scheme,  and  as 
time  went  on  came  to  resent  the  attitude  of  the  European 


416  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Powers  in  not  attacking  England  and  forcing  her  to 
subsist  on  her  own  grain  supplies.  All  Europe  hated 
Britain,  so  his  newspapers  said,  so  why  did  not  all 
Europe  attack  Britain  with  its  armies  as  well  as  with 
its  Press  ?  We  would  beat  it,  of  course — what  was  all 
Europe  but  a  set  of  furriners  ? — meantime  our  foreign 
wheat  supplies  would  be  cut  off  by  the  prowling  navies 
of  France,  Germany,  Russia  and  everywhere  else, 
which  Reuben  imagined  crowding  the  seas,  while  the 
true-born  sons  of  Britain,  sustaining  themselves  for  the 
first  time  on  British-grown  corn,  and  getting  drunk  for 
the  first  time  on  beer  innocent  of  foreign  hop-substitutes, 
would  drive  upstart  Europe  to  its  grave,  and  start  a 
millennium  of  high  prices  and  heavy  grain  duties. 

However,  Europe  was  disobliging ;  corn  prices  hardly 
rose  at  all,  and  Reuben  was  driven  to  the  unwelcome 
thought  that  the  only  hope  of  the  British  farmer  was 
milk — at  least,  that  was  not  likely  ever  to  be  imported 
from  abroad. 

The  year  wore  on.  Kimberley  and  Ladysmith  were 
relieved.  Rye  hung  out  its  flags,  and  sang  "  Dolly  Grey  " 
louder  than  ever.  Then  Mafeking  was  saved,  and  a 
bonfire  was  lit  up  at  Leasan  House,  in  which  a  couple  of 
barns  and  some  stables  were  accidentally  involved. 
Everyone  wore  penny  medallion  portraits  of  officers — 
Roberts  and  Baden  -  Powell  were  the  favourites  at 
Odiam,  which  nearly  came  to  blows  with  Burntbarns 
over  the  rival  merits  of  French.  While  Reuben  himself 
bought  a  photograph  of  Kitchener  in  a  red,  white,  and 
blue  frame. 

Then  suddenly  an  honour  fell  on  Odiam.  The  War 
Office  itself  sent  it  a  telegram.  But  the  honour  was 
taken  sadly,  for  the  telegram  announced  that  Sergeant 
David  Backfield  had  been  killed  in  action  at  Laing's 
Nek. 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  417 


§14- 

It  was  not  the  first  time  death  had  visited  Reuben, 
but  it  was  the  first  time  death  had  touched  him.  His 
father's  death,  his  mother's,  George's,  Albert's,  had  all 
somehow  seemed  much  more  distant  than  this  very 
distant  death  in  Africa.  Even  Naomi's  had  not  impressed 
him  so  much  with  sorrow  for  her  loss  as  sorrow  for  the 
inadequacy  of  her  life. 

But  David's  death  struck  home.  David  and  William 
were  the  only  two  children  whom  he  had  really  loved. 
They  were  his  hope,  his  future.  Once  again  he  tasted 
the  agonies  of  bereaved  fatherhood,  with  the  added 
tincture  of  hopelessness.  He  would  never  again  see 
David's  brown,  strong,  merry  face,  hear  his  voice,  build 
plans  for  him.  For  some  days  the  paternal  feeling  was 
so  strong  that  he  craved  for  his  boy  quite  apart  from 
Odiam,  just  for  himself.  It  had  taken  eighty  years 
and  his  son's  death  to  make  a  father  of  him. 

An  added  grief  was  the  absence  of  a  funeral.  Reuben 
did  not  feel  this  as  the  relief  it  would  have  been  to 
some.  He  had  given  handsome  and  expensive  funerals 
to  those  not  half  so  dear  as  this  young  man  who  had 
been  hurried  into  his  soldier's  grave  on  the  lonely 
veldt.  In  course  of  time  William  sent  him  a  snapshot 
of  the  place,  with  its  little  wooden  cross.  Reuben 
dictated  a  tremendously  long  letter  through  Maude  the 
dairy-woman,  in  which  he  said  he  wanted  a  marble  head- 
stone put  up,  and  "  of  Odiam,  Sussex,"  added  to  the 
inscription. 

The  neighbourhood  pitied  him  in  his  loss.  There  was 
indeed  something  rather  pathetic  about  this  old  man  of 
eighty,  who  had  lost  nearly  all  his  kith  and  kin,  yet  now 
tasted  bereavement  for  the  first  time.  They  noticed 
that  he  lost  some  of  the  erect  ness  which  had  distin- 
guished him,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  drooped,  and  his 

2  E 


418  SUSSEX    GORSE 

hair,  though  persistently  thick,  passed  from  iron  grey 
to  a  dusty  white. 

One  day  when  he  was  walking  through  the  village  he 
heard  a  woman  say  as  he  passed — "  There  he  goes  !  I 
pity  un,  poor  old  man  !  "  The  insult  went  into  him 
like  a  knife.  He  turned  round  and  gave  the  woman  his 
fiercest  scowl.  Old  indeed  !  Had  one  ever  heard  of 
such  a  thing  !  old  ! — and  he  could  guide  the  plough  and 
dig  furrows  in  the  marl,  and  stack,  and  reap  with  any 
of  'em.  Old  ! — why,  he  was  only — 

— He  was  eighty.  He  suddenly  realised  that,  after 
all,  he  was  old.  He  did  not  carry  himself  as  erectly  as 
he  had  used ;  there  were  pains  and  stiffness  in  his  limbs 
and  rheumatic  swellings  in  his  joints.  His  hair  was 
white,  and  his  once  lusty  arms  were  now  all  shrivelled 
skin  and  sinew,  with  the  ossified  veins  standing  out 
hard  and  grey.  He  was  what  Harry  was  always  calling 
himself — "  only  a  poor  old  man  " — a  poor  old  man  who 
had  lost  his  son,  whom  cottage  women  pitied  from  their 
doorsteps — and  be  hemmed  to  them,  the  sluts  ! 

§15. 

Meantime  affairs  at  Grandturzel  were  going  from  bad 
to  worse.  Reuben  did  not  speak  much  about  Grand- 
turzel, but  he  watched  it  all  the  same,  and  as  time  wore 
on  a  look  of  quiet  satisfaction  would  overspread  his 
faoe  when  it  was  mentioned  at  the  Cocks.  He  watched 
the  tiles  drip  gradually  off  its  barn  roofs,  he  watched  the 
thatch  of  its  haggards  peel  and  moult,  he  watched  the 
oasts  lose  their  black  coats  of  tar,  while  the  wind  battered 
off  their  caps,  and  the  skeleton  poles  stuck  up  forlornly 
from  their  turrets.  Holes  wore  in  the  neat  house-front, 
windows  were  broken  and  not  mended,  torn  curtains 
waved  signals  of  distress.  It  was  only  a  question  of 
waiting. 

Reuben  often  went  to  the  Cocks,  for  he  had  heard  it 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  419 

said  that  one's  beer-drinking  capacities  diminished  with 
old  age,  and  he  was  afraid  that  if  he  stayed  away,  men 
would  think  it  was  on  that  account.  So  he  went  fre- 
quently, particularly  if  the  weather  was  of  a  kind  to 
keep  old  people  at  home.  He  did  not  talk  much,  pre- 
ferring to  listen  to  what  was  said,  sitting  quietly  at  his 
table  in  the  corner,  with  the  quart  of  Barclay  and  Perkins's 
mild  which  had  been  his  evening  drink  from  a  boy. 

It  was  at  the  Cocks  that  he  learned  most  of  Grand- 
turzel's  straits,  though  he  occasionally  made  visits  of 
inspection.  Realf  had  messed  his  hops  that  autumn,  and 
the  popular  verdict  was  that  he  could  not  possibly  hold 
out  much  longer. 

"  Wot'll  become  of  him,  I  waonder  ?  "  asked  Hilder, 
the  new  man  at  Socknersh. 

"  Someone  'ull  buy  him  up,  I  reckon/'  and  young 
Coalbran,  who  had  succeeded  his  father  at  Doozes, 
winked  at  the  rest  of  the  bar,  and  the  bar  to  a  man 
turned  round  and  stared  at  old  Reuben,  who  drew 
himself  up,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Wot  d'you  think  of  Grandturzel,  Mus'  Backfield  ?  " 
someone  asked  waggishly. 

"  Naun,"  said  Reuben  ;  "  I'm  waiting." 

He  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  A  few  days  later  he  was 
told  that  somebody  wanted  to  see  him,  and  in  the 
parlour  found  his  daughter  Tilly. 

He  had  seen  Tilly  at  intervals  through  the  years,  but 
as  he  had  never  allowed  himself  to  give  her  more  than  a 
withering  glance,  he  had  not  a  very  definite  idea  of  her. 
She  was  now  nearly  fifty-five,  and  more  than  inclined  to 
stoutness — indeed,  her  comfortable  figure  was  almost 
ludicrous  compared  with  her  haggard,  anxious  face, 
scored  with  lines  and  patched  with  shadows.  Her  grey 
hair  was  thin,  and  straggled  on  her  forehead,  her  eyes 
had  lost  their  brightness  ;  yet  there  was  nothing  wild 
or  terrible  about  her  face,  it  was  just  domesticity  in 
desperation. 


42.0  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Faather/'  she  said  as  Reuben  came  into  the  room. 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Henry  doan't  know  Fve  come/'  she  murmured 
helplessly. 

"  Wot  have  you  come  fur  ?  " 

"  To  ask  you — to  ask  you — Oh,  faather  !  "  she  burst 
into  tears,  her  broad  bosom  heaved  under  her  faded 
gown,  and  she  pressed  her  hands  against  it  as  if  to  keep 
it  still. 

"  Doan't  taake  on  lik  that/'  said  Reuben,  "  tell  me 
wot  you've  come  fur/' 

"  I  dursn't  now — it's  no  use — you're  a  hard  man." 

"  Then  doan't  come  sobbing  and  howling  in  my 
parlour.  You  can  go  if  you've  naun  more  to  say." 

She  pulled  herself  together  with  an  effort. 

"  I  thought  you  might — perhaps  you  might  help 
us  .  .  ." 

Reuben  said  nothing. 

"  We're  in  a  larmentable  way  up  at  Grandturzel." 

Her  father  still  said  nothing. 

"  I  doan't  know  how  we  shall  pull  through  another 
year." 

"  Nor  do  I." 

"  Oh,  faather,  doan't  be  so  hard  !  " 

"  You  said  I  wur  a  hard  man." 

"  But  you'll — you'll  help  us  jest  this  once.  I  know 
you're  angry  wud  me,  and  maybe  I've  treated  you  badly. 
But  after  all,  I'm  your  daughter,  and  my  children  are 
your  grandchildren." 

"  How  many  have  you  got  ?  " 

"  Five — the  youngest's  rising  ten." 

There  was  a  pause.  Reuben  walked  over  to  the 
window  and  looked  out.  Tilly  stared  at  his  back  im- 
ploringly. If  only  he  would  help  her  with  some  word 
or  sign  of  understanding  !  But  he  would  not — he  had 
not  changed  ;  she  had  forsaken  him  and  married  his 
rival,  and  he  would  never  forget  or  forgive. 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  421 

She  had  been  a  fool  to  come,  and  she  moved  a  step  or 
two  towards  the  door.  Then  suddenly  she  remembered 
the  anguish  which  had  driven  her  to  Odiam.  She  had 
be&i  frantic  with  grief  for  her  husband  and  children ; 
only  the  thought  of  their  need  had  made  it  possible  for 
her  to  override  her  inbred  fear  and  dislike  of  Reuben 
and  beg  him  to  help  them.  She  had  come,  and  since  she 
had  come  it  must  not  be  in  vain ;  the  worst  was  over 
now  that  she  was  actually  here,  that  she  had  actually 
pleaded.  She  would  face  it  out. 

"  Faather  !  "  she  called  sharply. 

He  turned  round. 

"  I  thought  maybe  you'd  lend  us  some  money — just 
fur  a  time — till  we're  straight  agaun." 

"  You'd  better  ask  somebody  else." 

"  There's  no  one  round  here  as  can  lend  us  wot  we 
need — it's — it's  a  good  deal  as  well  want  to  see  us 
through." 

"  Can't  you  mortgage  ?  " 

"  We  are  mortgaged — the  last  foot  " — and  she  burst 
into  tears  again. 

Reuben  watched  her  for  a  minute  or  two  in  silence. 

r<  You've  bin  a  bad  daughter,"  he  said  at  last,  "  and 
you've  got  no  right  to  call  on  me.  But  I've  had  my 
plans  for  Grandturzel  this  long  while." 

She  shuddered. 

"  This  mortgage  business  alters  'em  a  bit.  I'll  have 
to  think  it  over.  Maybe  I'll  let  you  hear  to-morrow 
mornun." 

"  Oh,  faather,  if  only  you'll  do  anything  fur  us,  we'll 
bless  you  all  our  lives." 

"  I  doan't  want  you  to  bless  me — and  maybe  you 
woan't  taake  my  terms." 

"  I  reckon  we  haven't  much  choice,"  she  said  sorrow- 
fully. 

"  Well,  you've  only  got  wot  you  desarve,"  said 
Reuben,  turning  to  the  door. 


422  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Tilly  opened  her  mouth  to  say  something,  but  was 
wise,  and  held  her  tongue. 

§16. 

The  next  morning  Reuben  sent  his  ultimatum  to 
Grandturzel.  He  would  pay  off  Realf  s  mortgage  and 
put  the  farm  into  thorough  repair,  on  condition  that 
Grandturzel  was  made  over  to  him,  root,  stock,  crop,  and 
inclosure,  as  his  own  property — the  Realfs  to  live  in  the 
dwelling-house  rent  free  and  work  the  place  for  a 
monthly  wage. 

These  rather  strange  terms  had  been  the  result  of 
much  thought  on  his  part.  His  original  plan  had  been 
simply  to  buy  the  farm  for  as  little  money  as  Realf 
would  take,  but  Tilly's  visit  had  inspired  him  with  the 
happy  thought  of  getting  it  for  nothing.  As  the  land 
was  mortgaged  it  would  be  very  difficult  for  Realf  to 
find  buyers,  who  would  also  be  discouraged  by  the  farm's 
ruinous  state  of  disrepair.  Indeed,  Reuben  thought 
himself  rather  generous  to  offer  what  he  did.  He  might 
have  stipulated  for  Realf  to  pay  him  back  in  a  given 
time  part  of  the  money  disbursed  on  his  account.  After 
all,  mortgage  and  repairs  would  amount  to  over  a 
thousand  pounds,  so  when  he  talked  of  getting  the 
place  for  nothing  it  was  merely  because  the  mortgage  and 
the  repairs  would  have  to  be  tackled  anyhow.  He  had 
little  fear  of  Realfs  refusing  his  terms — not  only  was  he 
very  unlikely  to  find  another  purchaser,  but  no  one  else 
would  let  him  stay  on,  still  less  pay  him  for  doing  so. 
Reuben  had  thought  of  keeping  him  on  as  tenant,  but 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  such  a  position  would 
make  him  too  independent.  He  preferred  rather  to 
have  him  as  a  kind  of  bailiff — the  monthly,  instead  of 
the  weekly,  wage  making  acceptance  just  possible  for 
his  pride. 

Of  course  Reuben  h;mself  would  rather  have  wandered 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  423 

roofless  for  the  rest  of  his  life  than  live  as  a  hireling  on 
the  farm  which  had  once  been  his  own.  But  he  hardly 
thought  Realf  would  take  such  a  stand — he  would 
consider  his  wife  and  children,  and  accept  for  their 
sakes.  "  If  he's  got  the  sperrit  to  refuse  I'll  think  better 
of  him  than  I've  ever  thought  in  my  life,  and  offer  him 
a  thousand  fur  the  plaace — but  I  reckon  I'm  purty  safe." 

He  was  right.  Realf  accepted  his  offer,  partly  per- 
suaded by  Tilly.  His  mortgage  foreclosed  in  a  couple 
of  months,  and  he  had  no  hopes  of  renewing  it.  If  he 
rejected  Reuben's  terms,  he  would  probably  soon  find 
himself  worse  off  than  ever — his  farm  gone  with  nothing 
to  show  for  it,  and  himself  a  penniless  exile.  On  the 
other  hand,  his  position  as  bailiff,  though  ignominious, 
would  at  least  leave  him  Grandturzel  as  his  home  and 
a  certain  share  in  its  management.  He  might  be  able  to 
save  some  money,  and  perhaps  at  last  buy  a  small  place 
of  his  own,  and  start  afresh.  .  .  .  He  primed  himself 
with  such  ideas  to  help  drug  his  pride.  After  all,  he 
could  not  sacrifice  his  wife  and  children  to  make  a 
holiday  for  his  self-respect.  Tilly  was  past  her  prime,  and 
not  able  for  much  hard  work,  and  though  his  eldest 
boys  had  enlisted,  like  Reuben's,  and  were  thus  no 
longer  on  his  mind,  he  had  two  marriageable  girls  at 
home  besides  his  youngest  boy  of  ten.  One's  wife  and 
children  were  more  to  one  than  one's  farm  or  one's 
position  as  a  farmer — and  if  they  were  not,  they  ought 
to  be. 

So  a  polite  if  rather  cold  letter  was  written  accepting 
Odiam's  conditions,  and  Tilly  thanked  heaven  that  she 
had  sacrificed  herself  and  gone  to  plead  with  her  father. 

§17- 

The  whole  of  Boarzell  now  belonged  to  Odiam,  except 
the  Fair-place  at  the  top.  Reuben  would  stare  covet- 
ously at  the  fir  and  gorse  clump  which  still  defied  him  ; 


424  SUSSEX    GORSE 

but  he  had  reached  that  point  in  a  successful  man's 
development  when  he  comes  to  believe  in  his  own 
success ;  bit  by  bit  he  had  wrested  Boarzell  from  the 
forces  that  held  it,  and  he  could  not  think  that  one 
patch  would  withstand  him  to  the  end. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  the  only  piece  that  was  not 
his  was  the  Moor's  most  characteristic  feature,  the  knob 
of  firs  that  made  it  a  landmark  for  miles  round.  While 
they  still  stood  men  could  still  talk  of  and  point  at 
Boarzell,  but  when  he  had  cut  them  down,  grubbed  up 
the  gorse  at  their  roots,  ploughed  over  their  place — 
then  Boarzell  would  be  lost,  swallowed  up  in  Odiam  ;  it 
would  be  at  most  only  a  name,  perhaps  not  even  that. 
Sometimes  Reuben  shook  his  fist  at  the  fir  clump  and 
muttered,  "  I'll  have  you  yet,  you  see  if  I  doan't, 
surely  e." 

Meantime  he  devoted  his  attention  to  the  land  he  had 
just  acquired.  The  Grandturzel  inclosure  was  put 
under  cultivation  like  the  rest  of  Boarzell,  and  a  stiff, 
tough,  stony  ground  it  proved,  reviving  all  Reuben's 
love  of  a  fight.  He  was  glad  to  have  once  more,  as  he 
put  it,  a  piece  of  land  he  could  get  his  teeth  into.  Realf 
could  not  help  a  half  resentful  admiration  when  he  saw 
his  father-in-law's  ploughs  tearing  through  the  flints, 
tumbling  into  long  chocolate  furrows  what  he  had 
always  looked  upon  as  an  irreclaimable  wilderness. 

He  accepted  his  position  with  a  fairly  good  grace — to 
complain  would  have  made  things  worse  for  Tilly  and 
the  children.  He  was  inclined  privately  to  scoff  at 
some  of  Reuben's  ideas  on  farming,  but  even  as  he  did 
so  he  realised  the  irony  of  it.  He  might  have  done 
otherwise,  yes,  but  he  was  kicked  out  of  his  farm,  the 
servant  of  the  man  whose  methods  he  thought  ridicu- 
lous. 

Reuben  on  his  side  thought  Realf  a  fool.  He  despised 
him  for  failing  to  lift  Grandturzel  out  of  adversity,  as 
he  had  lifted  Odiam.  He  would  not  have  kept  him  on 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  425 

as  bailiff  if  he  had  thought  there  would  have  otherwise 
been  any  chance  of  his  accepting  Odiam's  terms.  He 
disliked  seeing  him  about  the  place,  and  did  not  find — 
as  the  neighbourhood  pictured  he  must — any  satis- 
faction in  watching  his  once  triumphant  rival  humbly 
performing  the  duties  of  a  servant  on  the  farm  that 
used  to  be  his  own.  Reuben's  hatreds  were  not  personal, 
they  were  merely  a  question  of  roods  and  acres,  and 
when  that  side  of  them  was  appeased,  nothing  re- 
mained. They  were,  like  almost  everything  else  of  his, 
a  question  of  agriculture,  and  having  now  settled  Realf 
agriculturally  he  had  no  grudge  against  him  personally. 

About  this  time  old  Beatup  died.  He  was  Odiam's 
first  hand,  and  had  seen  the  farm  rise  from  sixty  acres 
and  a  patch  on  Boarzell  to  two  hundred  acres  and 
nearly  the  whole  Moor.  Reuben  was  sorry  to  lose  him, 
for  he  was  an  old-fashioned  servant — which  meant  that 
he  gave  much  in  the  way  of  work  and  asked  little  in  the 
way  of  wages  or  rest.  The  young  men  impudently 
demanded  twenty  shillings  a  week,  wanted  afternoons 
in  the  town,  and  complained  if  he  worked  them  over- 
time— there  had  never  been  such  a  thing  as  overtime 
till  board  schools  were  started. 

However,  of  late  Beatup  had  been  of  very  little  use. 
He  was  some  years  younger  than  Reuben,  but  he  looked 
quite  ten  years  older,  and  his  figure  was  almost  exactly 
like  an  S.  The  earth  had  used  him  hardly,  steaming 
his  bones  into  strange  shapes  and  swellings,  parching 
his  skin  to  something  dark  and  crackled  like  burnt 
paper,  filling  him  with  stiffness  and  pains.  Reuben 
had  straightened  his  shoulders,  which  had  drooped  a 
little  after  David's  death,  and  once  more  carried  his  old 
age  proudly,  as  the  crown  of  a  hale  and  strenuous  life. 

He  looked  forward  to  William  coming  back  and 
settling  down  at  Odiam.  It  would  be  good  to  have 
companionship  again.  The  end  of  the  war  was  in  sight 
— only  a  guerilla  campaign  was  being  waged  among 


426  SUSSEX    GORSE 

the  kopjes,  Kruger  had  fled  from  Pretoria,  and  everyone 
talked  of  Peace. 

At  last  Peace  became  an  accomplished  fact.  Reuben 
could  not  help  a  few  disloyal  regrets  that  his  corn- 
growing  had  been  in  vain,  but  he  consoled  himself  with 
the  thought  that  now  he  would  have  William  back  in  a 
few  weeks.  He  expected  a  letter  from  him,  and  grew 
irritable  when  none  came.  Billy  had  not  been  so  good 
about  writing  since  David's  death,  but  his  father  thought 
that  he  at  least  might  have  written  to  announce  his 
return.  As  things  were,  he  did  not  know  when  to 
expect  him.  He  supposed  he  was  bound  to  get  his  dis- 
charge, and  he  would  have  heard  if  anything  had 
happened  to  him.  Why  did  not  William  hurry  home 
to  share  Odiam's  greatness  with  his  old  father  ? 

At  last  the  letter  came.  Reuben  took  it  into  the  oast- 
barn  to  read  it.  His  hands  trembled  as  he  tore  the 
envelope,  and  there  was  a  dimness  in  his  eyes,  so  that 
he  could  scarcely  make  out  the  big  printing  hand.  But 
it  was  not  the  dimness  of  his  eyes  which  was  responsible 
for  the  impossible  thing  he  saw ;  at  first  he  thought  it 
must  be,  and  rubbed  them — yet  the  unthinkable  was 
still  there.  William  was  not  coming  back  at  all. 

"  This  place  suits  me,  and  I  think  I  could  do  well  for 
myself  out  here.  I  feel  I  should  get  on  better  if  I  was 
my  own  master.  .  .  .  She  was  good  and  sensible-like,  and 
looked  as  if  she  could  manage  things.  So  I  married  her. 
.  .  .  We're  starting  up  on  a  little  farm  near  Jo'burg  .  .  . 
I  can't  see  it  matters  her  being  Dutch  .  .  .  fifty  acres 
of  pasture  . . .  ten  head  of  cattle  . . .  niggers  to  work  ..." 

.  .  .  The  words  danced  and  swam  before  Reuben, 
with  black  heaving  spaces  between  that  grew  wider  and 
wider,  till  at  last  they  swallowed  him  up. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  fainted. 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  427 


§18. 

Reuben's  last  hope  was  now  gone — for  his  family,  at 
least.  He  was  forced  regretfully  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  was  not  a  successful  family  man.  Whatever  methods 
he  tried  with  his  children,  severity  or  indulgence,  he 
seemed  bound  to  fail.  He  had  had  great  expectations 
of  David  and  William,  brought  up,  metaphorically,  on 
cakes  and  ale,  and  they  had  turned  out  as  badly  as 
Albert,  Richard — Reuben  still  looked  upon  Richard  as 
a  failure — Tilly,  or  Caro,  who  had  been  brought  up, 
literally,  on  cuffs  and  kicks. 

And  the  moral  of  it  all  was — not  to  trust  anyone  but 
yourself  to  carry  on  with  you  or  after  you  the  work  of 
your  life.  Your  ambition  is  another's  afterthought, 
your  afterthought  his  ambition.  He  would  not  give  a 
halfpenny  for  that  for  which  you  would  give  your  life. 
If  you  have  many  little  loves,  you  have  always  a  com- 
rade ;  if  you  have  one  great  love,  you  are  always  alone. 
This  is  the  Law. 

His  pride  would  not  let  him  give  way  to  his  grief.  He 
was  not  going  to  have  any  more  of  "  Pity  the  poor  old 
man."  He  mentioned  William's  decision  almost  casually 
at  the  Cocks.  However,  he  need  not  have  been  afraid. 
"  No  more'n  he  desarves,"  was  the  universal  comment 
.  .  .  "  shameful  the  way  he  treated  Grandturzel "... 
"  no  feeling  fur  his  own  kin  "  .  .  .  "  the  young  feller  was 
wise  not  to  come  back."  Indeed,  locally  the  matter 
was  looked  upon  as  a  case  of  poetic  justice,  and  the 
rector's  sermon  on  Sunday,  treating  of  the  wonderful 
sagacity  of  Providence,  was  taken,  rightly  or  wrongly, 
to  have  a  personal  application. 

Meantime,  in  Reuben's  heart  was  darkness.  As  was 
usual  when  any  fear  or  despair  laid  hold  of  him,  he 
became  obsessed  by  a  terror  of  his  old  age.  Generally 
he  felt  so  well  and  vigorous  that  he  scarcely  realised  he 


428  SUSSEX    GORSE 

was  eighty-two  ;  but  now  he  felt  an  old  man,  alone 
and  childless.  Harry's  reiterated  "  only  a  poor  old 
man  ...  a  poor  old  man/'  rang  like  a  knell  in  his  ears. 
It  was  likely  that  he  would  not  live  much  longer — he 
would  probably  die  with  the  crest  of  Boarzell  yet  un- 
conquered.  He  made  a  new  will,  leaving  his  property 
to  William  on  condition  that  he  came  home  to  take 
charge  of  it,  and  did  not  sell  a  single  acre.  If  he  refused 
these  conditions,  he  left  it  to  Robert  under  similar  ones, 
and  failing  him  to  Richard.  It  was  a  sorry  set  of  heirs, 
but  there  was  no  help  for  it,  and  he  signed  his  last  will 
and  testament  with  a  grimace. 

Fair  day  was  to  be  a  special  holiday  that  year  because 
of  the  Coronation.  Reuben  at  first  thought  that  he 
would  not  go — it  was  always  maddening  to  see  the 
booths  and  shows  crowding  over  his  Canaan,  and  cir- 
cumstances would  make  his  feelings  on  this  occasion 
ten  times  more  bitter.  But  he  had  never  missed  the 
Fair  except  for  some  special  reason,  such  as  a  funeral 
or  an  auction,  and  he  felt  that  if  he  stayed  away  it 
might  be  put  down  to  low  spirits  at  his  son's  desertion, 
or,  worse  still,  to  his  old  age. 

So  he  came,  dressed  in  his  best,  as  usual,  with  corduroy 
breeches,  leggings,  wide  soft  hat,  and  the  flowered  waist- 
coat and  tail-coat  he  had  refused  to  discard.  He  was  no 
longer  the  centre  of  a  group  of  farmers  discussing  crops 
and  weather  and  the  latest  improvements  in  machinery 
— he  stood  and  walked  alone,  inspecting  the  booths  and 
side-shows  with  a  contemptuous  eye,  while  the  crowd 
stared  at  him  furtively  and  whispered  when  he  passed 
.  .  .  "  There  he  goes  "  .  .  .  "  old  Ben  Backfield  up  at 
Odiam."  Reuben  wondered  if  this  was  fame. 

The  Fair  had  moved  still  further  with  the  times.  The 
merry-go-round  organ  played  "  Bluebell,"  "  Dolly 
Grey,"  and  "  The  Absent-Minded  Beggar,"  the  chief 
target  in  the  shooting-gallery  was  Kruger,  with  Cronje 
and  De  Wet  as  subordinates,  and  the  Panorama  showed 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  429 

Queen  Victoria's  funeral.  The  fighting  booth  was  hidden 
away  still  further,  and  dancing  now  only  started  at 
nightfall.  There  were  some  new  shows,  too.  The  old- 
fashioned  thimble-rigging  had  given  place  to  a  modern 
swindle  with  tickets  and  a  dial ;  instead  of  the  bearded 
woman  or  the  pig-faced  boy,  one  put  a  penny  in  the  slot 
and  saw  a  lady  undress — to  a  certain  point.  There  was 
a  nigger  in  a  fur-lined  coat  lecturing  on  a  patent 
medicine,  while  the  stalls  themselves  were  of  a  more 
utilitarian  nature,  selling  whips  and  trousers  and  balls 
of  string,  instead  of  the  ribbon  and  gingerbread  fairings 
bought  by  lovers  in  days  of  old. 

Reuben  prowled  up  and  down  the  streets  of  booths, 
grinned  scornfully  at  the  efforts  in  the  shooting  gallery, 
watched  a  very  poor  fight  in  the  boxing  tent,  had  a 
drink  of  beer  and  a  meat  pie,  and  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  Fair  had  gone  terribly  to  pieces  since  his  young 
days. 

He  found  his  most  congenial  occupation  in  examining 
the  soil  on  the  outskirts,  and  trying  to  gauge  its  possi- 
bilities. The  top  of  Boarzell  was  almost  entirely  lime — 
the  region  of  the  marl  scarcely  came  beyond  the  out- 
skirts of  the  Fair.  Of  course  the  whole  place  was  tangled 
and  matted  with  the  roots  of  the  gorse,  and  below  them 
the  spreading  toughness  of  the  firs.  Reuben  fairly 
ached  to  have  his  spade  in  it.  He  was  kneeling  down, 
crumbling  some  of  the  surface  mould  between  his  fingers, 
when  he  suddenly  noticed  a  clamour  in  the  Fair  behind 
him.  The  vague  continuous  roar  was  punctuated  by 
shrill  screams,  shouts,  and  an  occasional  crash.  He  rose 
to  his  feet,  and  at  the  same  moment  a  bunch  of  women 
rushed  out  between  the  two  nearest  stalls,  shrieking  at 
the  pitch  of  their  lungs. 

They  ran  down  towards  the  thickset  hedge  which 
divided  the  Fair-place  from  Odiam's  land,  and  to  his 
horror  began  to  try  to  force  their  way  through  it,  scream- 
ing piercingly  the  while.  Reuben  shouted  to  them  : 


430  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  Stop — you're  spoiling  my  headge  !  " 

"  He's  after  us— he'll  catch  us— O-o-oh  !  " 

"  Who's  after  you  ?  " 

But  before  they  had  time  to  answer,  something  burst 
from  between  the  stalls  and  ran  down  the  darkling 
slope,  brandishing  a  knife.  It  was  Mexico  Bill,  running 
amok,  as  he  had  sometimes  run  before,  but  on  less 
crowded  occasions.  The  women  sent  up  an  ear-splitting 
yell,  and  made  a  fresh  onslaught  on  the  hedge.  Someone 
grabbed  the  half-breed  from  behind,  but  his  knife 
flashed,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  free,  dashing 
through  the  gorse  towards  his  victims. 

Reuben  was  paralysed  with  horror.  In  another 
minute  they  would  break  down  his  hedge — a  good 
young  hedge  that  had  cost  him  a  pretty  penny — and 
be  all  over  his  roots.  For  a  moment  he  stood  as  if  fixed 
to  the  spot,  then  suddenly  he  pulled  himself  together. 
At  all  costs  he  must  save  his  roots.  He  could  not 
tackle  the  women  single-handed,  so  he  must  go  for  the 
madman. 

"  Backfield's  after  him  !  " 

The  cry  rose  from  the  mass  up  at  the  stalls,  as  the  big 
dark  figure  with  flapping  hat -brim  suddenly  sprang  out 
of  the  dusk  and  ran  to  meet  Mexico  Bill.  Reuben  was  an 
old  man,  and  his  arm  had  lost  its  cunning,  but  he 
carried  a  stout  ash  stick  and  the  maniac  saw  no  one 
but  the  women  at  the  hedge.  The  next  moment 
Reuben's  stick  had  come  against  his  forehead  with  a 
terrific  crack,  and  he  had  tumbled  head  over  heels  into 
a  gorse-bush. 

In  another  minute  half  the  young  men  of  the  Fair 
were  sitting  on  him,  and  everyone  else  was  crowding 
round  Backfield,  thanking  him,  praising  him,  and 
shaking  him  by  the  hand.  The  women  could  hardly 
speak  for  gratitude — he  became  a  hero  in  their  eyes,  a 
knight  at  arms.  .  .  .  "To  think  as  how  when  all 
them  young  fellers  up  at  the  Fair  wur  no  use,  he 


THE    END    IN    SIGHT  431 

shud  risk  his  life  to  save  us — he's  a  praaper  valiant 
man." 

But  Reuben  hardly  enjoyed  his  position  as  a  hero. 
He  succeeded  in  breaking  free  from  the  crowd,  now 
beginning  to  busy  itself  once  more  with  Mexico  Bill, 
who  was  showing  signs  of  returning  consciousness,  and 
plunged  into  the  mists  that  spread  their  frost-smelling 
curds  over  the  lower  slopes  of  Boarzell. 

"  Thank  heaven  I  saved  them  rootses  !  "  he  muttered 
as  he  walked. 

Then  suddenly  his  manner  quickened  ;  a  kind  of 
exaltation  came  into  his  look,  and  he  proudly  jerked  up 
his  head  : 

"  I'm  not  so  old,  then,  after  all." 


BOOK  VIII 
THE   VICTORY 


THE  next  year,  Richard  and  Anne  Backfield 
took  a  house  at  Playden  for  week-ends.  Anne 
wanted  to  be  near  her  relations  at  the  Manor, 
and  Richard,  softened  by  prosperity,  had  no  objection 
to  returning  to  the  scene  of  his  detested  youth. 

A  week  or  two  before  they  arrived  Reuben  went  to 
Playden,  and  looked  over  the  house.  It  was  a  new  one, 
on  the  hill  above  Star  Lock,  and  it  was  just  what  he 
would  have  expected  of  Richard  and  Anne  —  gimcrack. 
He  scraped  the  mortar  with  his  finger-nail,  poked  at 
the  tiles  with  his  stick,  and  pronounced  the  place  jerry- 
built  in  the  worst  way.  It  had  no  land  attached  to  it, 
either  —  only  a  silly  garden  with  a  tennis  court  and 
flowers.  Richard's  success  struck  him  as  extremely 
petty  compared  with  his  own. 

He  did  not  see  much  of  his  son  and  daughter-in-law 
on  their  visits.  Richard  was  inclined  to  be  friendly, 
but  Anne  hated  Odiam  and  all  belonging  to  it,  while 
Reuben  himself  disliked  calling  at  Starcliffe  House, 
because  he  was  always  meeting  the  Manor  people. 

The  family  at  Flightshot  consisted  now  of  the  Squire, 
who  had  nothing  against  him  except  his  obstinacy,  his 
lady,  and  his  son  who  was  just  of  age  and  "  the  most 
tedious  young  rascal  "  Reuben  had  ever  had  to  deal 
with.  He  drove  a  motor-car  with  hideous  din  up  and 
down  the  Peasmarsh  lanes,  and  once  Odiam  had  had 

432 


THE    VICTORY  433 

the  pleasure  of  lending  three  horses  to  pull  it  home 
from  the  Forstal.  But  his  worst  crimes  were  in  the  hunt- 
ing field  ;  he  had  no  respect  for  roots  or  winter  grain 
or  hedges  or  young  spinneys.  Twice  Reuben  had 
written  to  his  father,  through  Maude  the  scribe,  and  he 
vowed  openly  that  if  ever  he  caught  him  at  it  he'd  take 
a  stick  to  him. 

The  result  of  all  this  was  that  George  Fleet,  being 
young  and  humorous,  indulged  in  some  glorious  rags  at 
old  Backfield's  expense.  He  had  not  been  to  Cambridge 
for  nothing,  and  one  morning  Reuben  found  both  his 
house  doors  boarded  up  so  that  he  had  to  get  out  by  the 
window,  and  on  another  occasion  his  pigs  were  discovered 
in  a  squalling  mass  with  their  tails  tied  together.  There 
was  no  good  demanding  retribution,  for  the  youth's 
scandalised  innocence  when  confronted  with  his  crimes 
utterly  convinced  his  fools  of  parents,  and  gave  them 
an  opinion  of  his  accuser  that  promised  ill  for  his  ultimate 
possession  of  the  Fair-place. 

Reuben  still  dreamed  of  that  Fair-place,  and  occa- 
sionally schemed  as  well ;  but  everything  short  of  the 
death  of  the  Squire — and  his  son — seemed  useless. 
However,  he  now  had  the  rest  of  Boarzell  in  such  a 
state  of  cultivation  that  he  sometimes  found  it  possible 
to  forget  the  land  that  was  still  unconquered.  That  year 
he  bought  a  hay-elevator  and  a  steam-reaper.  The 
latter  was  the  first  in  the  neighbourhood — never  very 
go-ahead  in  agricultural  matters — and  quite  a  crowd 
collected  when  it  started  work  in  the  Glotten  Hide,  to 
watch  it  mow  down  the  grain,  gather  it  into  bundles, 
and  crown  the  miracle  by  tying  these  just  as  neatly  as, 
and  much  more  quickly  than,  a  man. 

Though  Reuben's  corn  had  not  done  much  for  him 
materially,  it  had  far-reaching  consequences  of  another 
kind.  It  immensely  increased  his  status  in  the  county. 
Odiam  had  more  land  under  grain  cultivation  than  any 
farm  east  of  Lewes,  and  the  local  Tories  saw  in  Back- 

2  F 


434  SUSSEX    GORSE 

field  a  likely  advocate  of  Tariff  Reform.  He  was  ap- 
proached by  the  Rye  Conservative  Club,  and  invited  to 
speak  at  one  or  two  of  their  meetings.  He  turned  out 
to  be,  as  they  had  expected,  an  ardent  champion  of  the 
new  idea.  "  It  wur  wot  he  had  worked  and  hoped  and 
prayed  fur  all  his  life — to  git  back  them  Corn  Laws." 
He  was  requested  not  to  put  the  subject  quite  so  bluntly. 
So  in  his  latter  days  Reuben  came  back  into  the  field 
of  politics  which  he  had  abandoned  in  middle  age. 
Once  more  his  voice  was  heard  in  school -houses  and 
mission-halls,  pointing  out  their  duty  and  profit  to  the 
men  of  Rye.  He  was  offered,  and  accepted,  a  Vice- 
Presidentship  of  the  Conservative  Club.  Politics  had 
changed  in  many  ways  since  he  had  last  been  mixed  up 
in  them.  The  old,  old  subjects  that  had  come  up  at 
election  after  election — vote  by  ballot,  the  education  of 
the  poor,  the  extension  of  the  franchise,  Gladstone's 
free  breakfast  table — had  all  been  settled,  or  deformed 
out  of  knowledge.  The  only  old  friend  was  the  question 
of  a  tax  on  wheat,  revived  after  years  of  quiescence — 
to  rekindle  in  Reuben's  old  age  dreams  of  an  England 
where  the  corn  should  grow  as  the  grass,  a  golden 
harvest  from  east  to  west,  bringing  wealth  and  in- 
dependence to  her  sons-. 

§2. 

The  only  part  of  the  farm  that  was  not  doing  well 
was  Grandturzel.  The  new  ground  had  been  licked 
into  shape  under  Reuben's  personal  supervision,  but 
the  land  round  the  steading,  which  had  been  under 
cultivation  for  three  hundred  years,  yielded  only  feeble 
crops  and  shoddy  harvests — things  went  wrong,  animals 
died,  accidents  happened. 

Realf  had  never  been  a  practical  man — perhaps  it 
was  to  that  he  owed  his  downfall.  Good  luck  and 
ambition  had  made  him  soar  for  a  while,  but  he  lacked 
the  dogged  qualities  which  had  enabled  Reuben  to  play 


THE    VICTORY  435 

for  years  a  losing  game.  Besides,  he  had  to  a  certain 
extent  lost  interest  in  land  which  was  no  longer  his  own. 
He  worked  for  a  wage,  for  his  daily  bread,  and  the  labour 
of  his  hands  and  head  which  had  once  been  an  adven- 
ture and  a  glory,  was  now  nothing  but  the  lost  labour 
of  those  who  rise  up  early  and  late  take  rest. 

Also  he  was  in  bad  health — his  hardships  and  humilia- 
tions had  wrought  upon  his  body  as  well  as  his  soul.  He 
was  not  even  the  ghost  of  the  man  whose  splendid 
swaggering  youth  had  long  ago  in  Peasmarsh  church 
first  made  the  middle-aged  Reuben  count  his  years. 
He  stooped,  suffered  horribly  from  rheumatism,  had  lost 
most  of  his  hair,  and  complained  of  his  eyesight. 

Reuben  began  to  fidget  about  Grandturzel.  He  told 
his  son-in-law  that  if  things  did  not  improve  he  would 
have  to  go.  In  vain  Realf  pleaded  bad  weather  and 
bad  luck — neither  of  them  was  ever  admitted  as  an 
excuse  at  Odiam. 

The  hay-harvest  of  1904  was  a  good  one — of  course 
Realf  s  hay  had  too  much  sorrel  in  it,  there  was  always 
something  wrong  with  Realfs  crops — but  generally 
speaking  the  yield  was  plentiful  and  of  good  quality. 
Reuben  rejoiced  to  feel  the  soft  June  sun  on  his  back, 
and  went  out  into  the  fields  with  his  men,  himself 
driving  for  some  hours  the  horse-rake  over  the  swathes, 
and  drinking  at  noon  his  pint  of  beer  in  the  shade  of 
the  waggon.  In  the  evening  the  big  hay-elevator 
hummed  at  Odiam,  and  old  Backfield  stood  and  watched 
it  piling  the  greeny-brown  ricks  till  darkness  fell,  and  he 
went  in  to  supper  and  the  sleep  of  his  old  age. 

It  took  about  a  week  to  finish  the  work — on  the  last 
day  the  fields  which  for  so  long  had  shown  the  wind's 
path  in  tawny  ripples,  were  shaven  close  and  green, 
scattering  a  sweet  steam  into  the  air — a  soft  pungency 
that  stole  up  to  the  house  at  night  and  lapped  it  round 
with  fragrance.  Old  Reuben  stretched  himself  con- 
tentedly as  he  went  into  his  dim  room  and  prepared  to 


436  SUSSEX    GORSE 

lie  down.    The  darkness  had  hardly  settled  on  the  fields 
— a  high  white  light  was  in  the  sky,  among  the  stars. 

He  went  to  bed  early  with  the  birds  and  beasts. 
Before  he  climbed  into  the  bed,  lying  broad  and  white 
and  dim  in  the  background  of  the  candleless  room,  he 
opened  the  window,  to  drink  in  the  scent  of  his  land  as 
it  fell  asleep.  The  breeze  whiffled  in  the  orchard, 
fluttering  the  boughs  where  the  young  green  apples  hid 
under  the  leaves,  there  was  a  dull  sound  of  stamping  in 
the  barns  ...  he  could  see  the  long  line  of  his  new  hay- 
cocks beyond  the  yard,  soft  dark  shapes  in  the  twilight. 

He  was  just  going  to  turn  back  into  the  room,  his 
limbs  aching  pleasantly  for  the  sheets,  when  he  noticed 
a  faint  glow  in  the  sky  to  southward.  At  first  he 
thought  it  was  a  shred  of  sunset  still  burning,  then 
realised  it  was  too  far  south  for  June — also  it  seemed 
to  flicker  in  the  wind.  Then  suddenly  it  spread  itself 
into  a  fan,  and  cast  up  a  shower  of  sparks. 

The  next  minute  Reuben  had  pulled  on  his  trousers 
and  was  out  in  the  passage,  shouting  "  Fire  !  " 

The  farm  men  came  tumbling  from  the  attics — 
"  Whur,  maaster  ?  " 

"  Over  at  Grandturzel — can't  see  wot's  burning  from 
here.  Git  buckets  and  come  !  " 

Shouts  and  gunshots  brought  those  men  who  slept 
out  in  the  cottages,  and  a  half-dressed  gang,  old  Reuben 
at  the  head,  pounded  through  the  misty  hay-sweet 
night  to  where  the  flames  were  spreading  in  the  sky. 
From  the  shoulder  of  Boarzell  they  could  see  what  was 
burning — Realf's  new-made  stacks,  two  already  aflame, 
the  others  doomed  by  the  sparks  which  scattered  on 
the  wind. 

No  one  spoke,  but  from  Realf's  yard  came  sounds  of 
shouting,  the  uneasy  lowing  and  stamping  of  cattle, 
and  the  neigh  of  terrified  horses.  The  whole  place  was 
lit  up  by  the  glare  of  the  fire,  and  soon  Reuben  could 
see  Realf  and  his  two  men,  Dunk  and  Juglery,  with  Mrs. 


THE    VICTORY  437 

Realf,  the  girls,  and  young  Sidney,  passing  buckets 
down  from  the  pond  and  pouring  them  on  the  blazing 
stacks — with  no  effect  at  all. 

"  The  fools  !  Wot  do  they  think  they're  a-doing  of  ? 
Doan't  they  know  how  to  put  out  a  fire  ?  " 

He  quickened  his  pace  till  his  men  were  afraid  he 
would  "  bust  himself/'  and  dashing  between  the  burning 
ricks,  nearly  received  full  in  the  chest  the  bucket  his 
son-in-law  had  just  swung. 

"  Stop  !  "  he  shouted — "  are  your  cattle  out  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  git  'em  out,  you  fool !  You'll  have  the  whole 
plaace  a  bonfire  in  a  minnut.  Wot's  the  use  of  throw- 
ing mugs  of  water  lik  this  ?  You'll  never  put  them  ricks 
out.  Saave  your  horses,  saave  your  cows,  saave  your 
poultry.  Anyone  gone  for  the  firemen  ?  " 

'  Yes,  I  sent  a  boy  over  fust  thing." 

"  Why  didn't  you  send  to  me  ?  " 

"  Cudn't  spare  a  hand." 

"  Cudn't  spare  one  hand  to  fetch  over  fifteen — that's 
a  valiant  idea.  Now  doan't  go  loitering  ;  fetch  out  your 
cattle  afore  they're  roast  beef,  git  out  the  horses  and  all 
the  stock — and  souse  them  ricks  wot  aun't  burning  yit." 

The  men  scurried  in  all  directions  obeying  his  orders. 
Soon  terrified  horses  were  being  led  blindfold  into  the 
home  meadow ;  the  cows  and  bullocks,  less  imagina- 
tive, followed  more  quietly.  Meantime  buckets  were 
passed  up  from  the  pond  to  the  stacks  that  were  not 
alight ;  but  before  this  work  was  begun  Reuben  went 
up  to  the  furthest  stack  and  thrust  his  hand  into  it- 
then  he  put  in  his  head  and  sniffed.  Then  he  called 
Realf. 

"  Coame  here." 

Realf  came. 

"  Wot's  that  ?  " 

Realf  felt  the  hay  and  sniffed  like  Reuben. 

"  Wot's  that  ?  "  his  father-in-law  repeated. 


438  SUSSEX    GORSE 

Realf  went  white  to  the  lips,  and  said  nothing. 

"  I'll  tell  you  wot  it  is,  then  !  "  cried  Reuben—"  it's 
bad  stacking.  This  hay  aun't  bin  praaperly  dried — it's 
bin  stacked  damp,  and  them  ricks  have  gone  alight  o' 
themselves,  bust  up  from  inside.  It's  your  doing,  this 
here  is,  and  I'll  maake  you  answer  fur  it,  surelye." 

"  I — I — the  hay  seemed  right  enough." 

"  Maybe  it  seems  right  enough  to  you  now  ?  " — and 
Reuben  pointed  to  the  blazing  stacks. 

Realf  opened  his  lips,  but  the  words  died  on  them. 
His  eyes  looked  wild  and  haggard  in  the  jigging  light ; 
he  groaned  and  turned  away.  At  the  same  moment  a 
pillar  of  fire  shot  up  from  the  roof  of  the  Dutch  barn. 

The  flying  sparks  had  soon  done  their  work.  Fires 
sprang  up  at  a  distance  from  the  ricks,  sometimes  in 
two  places  at  once.  Everyone  worked  desperately,  but 
the  water  supply  was  slow,  and  though  occasionally 
these  sporadic  fires  were  put  out,  generally  they  burned 
fiercely.  Wisps  of  blazing  hay  began  to  fly  about  the 
yard,  lodging  in  roofs  and  crannies.  By  the  time  the 
fire  engine  arrived  from  Rye,  the  whole  place  was 
alight  except  the  dwelling-house  and  the  oasts. 

The  engine  set  to  work,  and  soon  everything  that  had 
not  been  destroyed  by  fire  was  destroyed  by  water. 
But  the  flames  were  beaten.  They  hissed  and  blackened 
into  smoke.  When  dawn  broke  over  the  eastern  shoulder 
of  Boarzell,  the  fire  was  out.  A  rasping  pungent  smell 
rose  from  a  wreckage  of  black  walls  and  little  smoking 
piles  of  what  looked  like  black  rags.  Water  poured  off 
the  gutters  of  the  house,  and  soused  still  further  the 
pile  of  furniture  and  bedding  that  had  been  pulled  hastily 
out  of  it.  The  farm  men  gathered  round  the  buckets, 
to  drink,  and  to  wash  their  smoke-grimed  skins.  Reuben 
talked  over  the  disaster  with  the  head  of  the  fire  brigade, 
who  endorsed  his  opinion  of  spontaneous  combustion  ; 
and  Realf  of  Grandturzel  sat  on  a  heap  of  ashes — and 
sobbed. 


THE    VICTORY  439 


§3- 

That  morning  Reuben  had  a  sleep  after  breakfast, 
and  did  not  come  down  till  dinner-time.  He  was  told 
that  Mrs.  Realf  wanted  to  see  him  and  had  been  waiting 
in  the  parlour  since  ten.  He  smiled  grimly,  then  settled 
his  mouth  into  a  straight  line. 

He  found  his  daughter  in  a  chair  by  the  window.  Her 
face  was  puffed  and  blotched  with  tears,  and  her  legs 
would  hardly  support  her  when  she  stood  up.  She  had 
brought  her  youngest  son  with  her,  a  fine  sturdy  little 
fellow  of  fourteen.  When  Reuben  came  into  the  room 
she  gave  the  boy  a  glance,  and,  as  at  a  preconcerted 
signal,  they  both  fell  on  their  knees. 

"  Git  up  !  "  cried  Backfield,  colouring  with  annoy- 
ance. 

"  We've  come/'  sobbed  Tilly,  "  we've  come  to  beg 
you  to  be  merciful." 

"  I  woan't  listen  to  you  while  you're  lik  that." 

The  son  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  helped  his  mother, 
whose  stoutness  and  stiffness  made  it  a  difficult  matter, 
to  rise  too. 

"  If  you've  come  to  ask  me  to  kip  you  and  your 
husband  on  at  Grandturzel,"  said  Reuben,  "  you  might 
have  saaved  yourself  the  trouble,  fur  I'm  shut  of  you 
both  after  last  night." 

"  Faather,  it  wur  an  accident." 

"  A  purty  accident — wud  them  stacks  no  more  dry 
than  a  ditch.  .  'Twas  a  clear  case  of  'bustion — fire- 
man said  so  to  me  ;  as  wicked  and  tedious  a  bit  o'  wark 
as  ever  I  met  in  my  life." 

"  It'll  never  happen  agaun." 

"  No — it  woan't." 

"  Oh,  faather — doan't  be  so  hard  on  us.  The  Lord 
knows  wot'll  become  of  us  if  you  turn  us  out  now.  It 
'ud  have  been  better  if  we'd  gone  five  years  ago — Realf 


440  SUSSEX    GORSE 

wur  a  more  valiant  man  then  nor  wot  he  is  now.  Hell 
never  be  able  to  start  agaun — he  aun't  fit  fur  it." 

"  Then  he  aun't  fit  to  work  on  my  land.  I  aun't  a 
charity  house.  I  can't  afford  to  kip  a  man  wud  no 
backbone  and  no  wits.  I've  bin  too  kind  as  it  is — I 
shud  have  got  shut  of  him  afore  he  burnt  my  plaace  to 
cinders." 

"  But  wot's  to  become  of  us  ?  " 

"  That's  no  consarn  of  mine — aun't  you  saaved  any- 
thing ?  " 

"  How  cud  we,  faather  ?  " 

"  I  could  have  saaved  two  pound  a  month  on  Realf's 
wage." 

Tilly  had  a  spurt  of  anger. 

"  Yes — you'd  have  gone  short  of  everything  and 
made  other  folks  go  short — but  we  aun't  that  kind." 

"  You  aun't.    That's  why  I'm  turning  you  away." 

Her  tears  welled  up  afresh. 

"  Oh,  faather,  I'm  sorry  I  spoake  lik  that.  Doan't  be 
angry  wud  me  fur  saying  wot  I  did.  I'll  own  as  we 
might  have  managed  better — only  doan't  send  us  away 
— fur  this  liddle  chap's  sake,"  and  she  pulled  forward 
young  Sidney,  who  was  crying  too. 

"  Where  are  your  other  sons  ?  " 

"  Harry's  got  a  wife  and  children  to  keep — he  cudn't 
help  us  ;  and  Johnnie's  never  maade  more'n  fifteen 
shilling  a  week  since  the  war." 

Reuben  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  staring  at  the 
boy. 

"  Does  Realf  know  you've  come  here  ?  "  he  asked  at 
length. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tilly  in  a  low  voice. 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  suddenly  Reuben 
went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

".There's  no  use  you  waiting  and  vrothering  me — 
my  mind's  maade  up." 

"  Faather,  fur  pity's  saake " 


THE    VICTORY  441 

"  Doan't  talk  nonsense.  How  can  I  sit  here  and  see 
my  land  messed  about  by  a  fool,  jest  because  he  happens 
to  have  married  my  darter  ? — and  agaunst  my  wish, 
too.  I'm  sorry  fur  you,  Tilly,  but  you're  still  young 
enough  to  work.  I'm  eighty-five,  and  I  aun't  stopped 
working  yet,  so  doan't  go  saying  you're  too  old.  Your 
gals  can  go  out  to  service  .  .  .  and  this  liddle  chap 
here  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  speaking,  and  stared  at  the  lad,  chin  in 
hand. 

"  He  can  work  too,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Tilly  bit- 
terly. 

"  I  wur  going  to  say  as  how  I've  taaken  a  liking  to 
him.  He  looks  a  valiant  liddle  feller,  and  if  you'll  hand 
him  over  to  me  and  have  no  more  part  nor  lot  in  him, 
I'll  see  as  he  doesn't  want." 

Tilly  gasped. 

"  I've  left  this  farm  to  William,"  continued  Reuben, 
"  because  I've  naun  else  to  leave  it  to  that  I  can  see. 
All  my  children  have  forsook  me  ;  but  maybe  this  boy 
'ud  be  better  than  they." 

"  You  mean  that  if  we  let  you  adopt  Sidney,  you'll 
maake  Odiam  his  when  you're  gone  ?  " 

"  I  doan't  say  for  sartain — if  he  turns  out  a  praaper 
lad  and  is  a  comfort  to  me  and  loves  this  plaace  as  none 
of  my  own  children  have  ever  loved  it " 

But  Tilly  interrupted  him.  Putting  her  arm  round 
the  terrified  boy's  shoulders,  she  led  him  through  the 
door. 

"  Thanks,  faather,  but  if  you  offered  to  give  us  to-day 
every  penny  you've  got,  I'd  let  you  have  no  child  of 
mine.  Maybe  we'll  be  poor  and  miserable  and  have  to 
work  hard,  but  he  woan't  be  one-half  so  wretched  wud 
us  as  he'd  be  wud  you.  D'you  think  I  disremember  my 
own  childhood  and  the  way  you  maade  us  suffer  ? 
You're  an  old  man,  but  you're  hearty — you  might  live 
to  a  hundred — and  I'd  justabout  die  of  sorrow  if  I 


442  SUSSEX    GORSE 

thought  any  child  of  mine  wur  living  wud  you  and  being 
maade  as  miserable  as  you  maade  us.  I'd  rather  see  my 
boy  dead  than  at  Odiam." 

§4- 

There  was  a  big  outcry  in  Peasmarsh  against  Back- 
field's  treatment  of  the  Realfs.  Not  a  farmer  in  the 
district  would  have  kept  on  a  hand  who  had  burnt 
nearly  the  whole  farm  to  ashes  through  bad  stacking, 
but  this  fact  did  little  to  modify  the  general  criticism. 
A  dozen  excuses  were  found  for  Realfs  "  accident/'  as 
it  came  to  be  called — "  and  old  Ben  cud  have  afforded 
to  lose  a  stack  or  two,  surelye." 

Reuben  was  indifferent  to  the  popular  voice.  The 
Realfs  cleared  out  bag  and  baggage  the  following  month. 
No  one  knew  their  destination,  but  it  was  believed  they 
were  to  separate.  Afterwards  it  transpired  that  Realf 
had  been  given  work  on  a  farm  near  Lurgashall,  while 
Tilly  became  housekeeper  to  a  clergyman,  taking  with 
her  the  boy  she  would  rather  have  seen  dead  than  at 
Odiam.  Nothing  was  heard  of  the  daughters,  and  local 
rumour  had  it  that  they  went  on  the  streets ;  but  this 
pleasing  idea  was  shattered  a  year  or  two  later  by  young 
Alee,  the  publican's  son,  coming  back  from  a  visit  to 
Chichester  and  saying  he  had  found  both  the  girls  in 
service  in  a  Canon's  house,  doing  well,  and  one  engaged 
to  marry  the  butler. 

Reuben  did  not  trouble  about  the  Realfs.  Tilly  had 
been  no  daughter  of  his  from  the  day  she  married ;  it 
was  a  pity  he  had  ever  revoked  his  wrath  and  allowed 
himself  to  be  on  speaking  terms  with  her  and  her  family  ; 
if  he  had  turned  them  out  of  Grandturzel  straight  away 
there  would  have  been  none  of  this  absurd  fuss — also 
he  would  not  have  lost  a  good  crop  of  hay.  But  he 
comforted  himself  with  the  thought  that  his  magnani- 
mity had  put  about  a  thousand  pounds  into  his  pocket, 
so  he  could  afford  to  ignore  the  cold  shoulder  which 


THE    VICTORY  443 

was  turned  to  him  wherever  he  went.  And  the  hay 
was  insured. 

He  gave  up  going  to  the  Cocks.  It  had  fallen  off 
terribly  those  last  five  years,  he  told  Maude  the  dairy- 
woman,  his  only  confidant  nowadays.  The  beer  had 
deteriorated,  and  there  was  a  girl  behind  the  counter  all 
painted  and  curled  like  a  Jezebubble,  and  rolling  her 
eyes  at  you  like  this.  ...  If  any  woman  thought  a  man 
of  his  experience  was  to  be  caught,  she  was  unaccount- 
able mistaken  (this  doubtless  for  Maude's  benefit,  that 
she  might  build  no  false  hopes  on  the  invitation  to  bring 
her  sewing  into  the  kitchen  of  an  evening).  Then  the 
fellows  in  the  bar  never  talked  about  stocks  and  crops 
and  such  like,  but  about  race-horses  and  football  and 
tomfooleries  of  that  sort,  wot  had  all  come  in  through 
the  poor  being  educated  and  put  above  themselves. 
Moreover,  there  was  a  gramophone  playing  trash  like 
"  I  wouldn't  leave  my  little  wooden  hut  for  you  " — 
and  the  tale  of  Reuben's  grievances  ended  in  expectora- 
tion. 

All  the  same  he  was  lonely.  Maude  was  a  good  woman, 
but  she  wasn't  his  equal.  He  wanted  to  speak  to  some- 
one of  his  own  class,  who  used  to  be  his  friend  in  days 
gone  by.  Then  suddenly  he  thought  of  Alice  Jury.  He 
had  promised  to  go  and  see  her  at  Rye,  but  had  never 
done  so.  He  remembered  how  long  ago  she  had  used 
to  comfort  him  when  he  felt  low-spirited  and  neglected 
by  his  fellows.  Perhaps  she  would  do  the  same  for  him 
now.  He  did  not  know  her  address,  but  the  new  people 
at  Cheat  Land  would  doubtless  be  able  to  give  it  to  him, 
and  perhaps  Alice  would  help  him  through  these  trying 
times  as  she  had  helped  him  through  earlier  ones. 

A  few  days  later  he  drove  off  in  his  trap  to  Rye. 
Though  he  had  scarcely  thought  of  her  for  ten  years,  he 
was  now  all  aflame  with  the  idea  of  meeting  her.  She 
would  be  pleased  to  see  him,  too.  Perhaps  their  long- 
buried  emotions  would  revive,  and  as  old  people  they 


444  SUSSEX    GORSE 

would  enjoy  a  friendship  which  would  be  sweeter  than 
the  love  they  had  promised  themselves  in  more  ardent 
days. 

Alice  lived  in  lodgings  by  the  Ypres  Tower.  The  little 
crinkled  cottage  looked  out  over  the  marshes  towards 
Camber  and  the  masts  of  ships.  Reuben  was  shown 
into  a  room  which  reminded  him  of  Cheat  Land  long 
ago,  for  there  were  books  arranged  on  shelves,  and 
curtains  of  dull  red  linen  quaintly  embroidered.  There 
was  a  big  embroidery  frame  on  the  table,  and  over  it 
was  stretched  a  gorgeous  altar-cloth  all  woven  with  gold 
and  violet  tissue. 

He  was  inspecting  these  things  when  Alice  came  in. 
Her  hair  was  quite  white  now,  and  she  stooped  a  little, 
but  it  seemed  to  Reuben  as  if  her  eyes  were  still  as 
lively  as  ever.  Something  strange  suddenly  flooded  up 
in  his  heart  and  he  held  out  both  hands. 

"  Alice  .  .  ."  he  said. 

"  Good  afternoon/'  she  replied,  putting  one  hand  in 
his,  and  withdrawing  it  almost  immediately. 

"  I — I — aun't  you  pleased  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you'd  forgotten  all  about  me,  certainly." 

She  offered  him  a  chair,  and  he  sat  down.  Her  cold- 
ness seemed  to  drive  back  the  tides  that  had  suddenly 
flooded  his  lips,  and  slowly  too  they  began  to  ebb  from 
his  heart.  Whom  had  he  come  to  see  ? — the  only 
woman  he  had  ever  loved,  whose  love  he  had  hoped  to 
catch  again  in  these  his  latter  days,  and  hold  trans- 
muted into  tender  friendship,  till  he  went  back  to  his 
earth  ?  Not  so,  it  seemed — but  an  old  woman  who  had 
once  been  a  girl,  with  whom  he  had  nothing  in  common, 
and  from  whom  he  had  travelled  so  far  that  they  could 
scarcely  hear  each  other's  voices  across  the  country 
that  divided  them.  Alice  broke  the  silence  by  offering 
him  some  tea. 

''Thanks,  but  I  doan't  taake  tea — I've  never  held 
wud  it." 


THE    VICTORY  445 

"  How  are  you,  Reuben  ?  I've  heard  a  lot  about  you, 
but  nothing  from  you  yourself.  Is  it  true  that  you've 
sent  away  your  daughter  and  her  family  from  Grand- 
turzel  ?  " 

"  Yes — after  they'd  burnt  the  plaace  down  to  the 
ground." 

"  And  where  are  they  now  ?  " 

"  I  dunno." 

Alice  said  nothing,  and  Reuben  fired  up  a  little  : 

"  I  daresay  you  think  badly  of  me,  lik  everyone  else. 
But  if  a  man  maade  a  bonfire  of  your  new  stacks,  I 
reckon  you  wouldn't  say  '  thank'ee,'  and  raise  his 
wages." 

Another  pause — then  Alice  said  : 

"  How  are  you  getting  on  with  Boarzell  ?  I  hear  that 
most  of  it's  yours  now." 

"  All  except  the  Fair-plaace — and  I  mean  to  have 
that  in  a  year  or  two,  surelye." 

This  time  it  was  she  that  kindled  : 

"  You  talk  as  if  you'd  all  your  life  before  you — and 
you  must  be  nearly  eighty-five." 

"  I  doan't  feel  old — at  least  not  often.  I  still 
feel  young  enough  to  have  a  whack  at  the  Fair- 
plaace." 

"  So  you  haven't  changed  your  idea  of  happiness  ?  " 

"  How  d'you  mean  ?  " 

"  Your  idea  of  happiness  always  was  getting  some- 
thing you  wanted.  Well,  lately  I've  discovered  my 
idea  of  happiness,  and  that's — wanting  nothing." 

"  Then  you  have  got  wot  you  want,"  said  Reuben 
cruelly. 

"  I  don't  think  you  understand." 

"  My  old  faather  used  to  say — '  I  want  nothing  that 
I  haven't  got,  and  so  I've  got  nothing  that  I  doan't 
want,  surelye.' ' 

"  It's  all  part  of  the  same  idea,  only  of  course  he  had 
many  more  things  than  I  have.  I'm  a  poor  woman,  and 


446  SUSSEX    GORSE 

lonely,  and  getting  old.  But  " — and  a  ring  of  exaltation 
came  into  her  voice,  and  the  light  of  it  into  her  eyes — 
"  I  want  nothing/' 

"  I  wish  you'd  talk  plain.  If  you  never  want  any- 
thing, then  you  aun't  praaperly  alive.  So  you  aun't 
happy — because  you're  dead." 

"  You  don't  understand  me.  It's  not  because  I'm 
dead  and  sluggish  that  I  don't  want  anything,  but 
because  I've  had  fight  enough  in  me  to  triumph  over 
my  desires.  So  now  everything's  mine." 

"  Fust  you  say  as  how  you're  happy  because  you've 
got  nothing,  and  now  you  say  as  everything's  yourn. 
How  am  I  to  know  wot  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  compare  my  case  with  yours.  You've  got 
everything  you  want,  and  yet  in  reality  you've  got 
nothing." 

"  That's  nonsense,  Alice."  He  spoke  more  gently, 
for  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  sorrow  and 
loneliness  had  affected  her  wits. 

"  It  isn't.  You've  got  what  you  set  out  to  get — 
Boarzell  Moor,  and  success  for  Odiam  ;  but  in  getting  it 
you  have  lost  everything  that  makes  life  worth  while — 
wife,  children,  friends,  and — and — love.  You're  like 
the  man  in  the  Bible  who  rebuilt  Jericho,  and  laid  the 
foundations  in  his  firstborn,  and  set  up  the  gates  in  his 
youngest  son." 

"  There  you  go,  Alice  !  lik  the  rest  of  them — no  more 
understanding  than  anyone  else.  Can't  you  see  that 
it's  bin  worth  while  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  it's  worth  losing  all  those  things  that  I 
may  get  the  one  big  thing  I  want.  Doan't  you  see  that 
Boarzell  and  Odiam  are  worth  more  to  me  than  wife  or 
family  or  than  you,  Alice.  Come  to  that,  you've  got 
none  o'  them  things  either,  and  you  haven't  a  farm  to 
maake  up  fur  it.  So  even  if  I  wur  sorry  fur  wot  I'm 
not  sorry  fur,  I'm  still  happier  than  you." 


THE    VICTORY  447 

"  No  you  aren't — because  you  want  a  thing,  and  I 
want  nothing/' 

"  I've  got  a  thing,  my  girl,  and  you've  got  nothing." 

They  had  both  risen  and  faced  each  other,  anger  in 
their  eyes.  But  their  antagonism  had  lost  that  vital 
quality  which  had  once  made  it  the  salt  of  their  friend- 
ship. 

'  You  doan't  understand  me,"  said  Reuben — "  I'd 
better  go." 

:(  You  don't  understand  me,"  said  Alice — "  you  can't." 

"  We've  lost  each  other,"  said  Reuben — "  good-bye." 

Alice  smiled  rather  bitterly,  and  had  a  moment  of 
vision. 

"  The  fact  is  that  we  can't  forgive  each  other — for 
being  happy  in  different  ways." 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  sorry  for  nothing." 

"  Nor  I." 

So  they  parted. 

Reuben  drove  back  slowly  through  the  October 
afternoon.  A  transparent  brede  of  mist  lay  over  the 
fields,  occasionally  torn  by  sunlight.  Everything  was 
very  quiet — sounds  of  labour  stole  across  the  valley 
from  distant  farms,  and  the  barking  of  a  dog  at  Stone- 
link  seemed  close  at  hand.  Now  and  then  the  old  man 
muttered  to  himself :  "  We  doan't  understand  each 
other — we  doan't  forgive  each  other — we've  lost  each 
other.  We've  lost  each  other." 

He  knew  now  that  Alice  was  lost.  The  whole  of 
Boarzell  lay  between  them.  He  had  thought  that  she 
would  be  always  there,  but  now  he  saw  that  between 
him  and  her  lay  the  dividing  wilderness  of  his  success. 
She  was  the  offering  and  the  reward  of  failure — and  he 
had  triumphed  over  failure  as  over  everything  else. 

He  drove  through  Peasmarsh  and  turned  into  the 
Totease  lane.  The  fields  on  both  sides  of  it  were  his 
now.  He  sniffed  delightedly  the  savour  of  their  sun- 
baked earth,  of  the  crumpling  leaves  in  their  hedges, 


448  SUSSEX    GORSE 

of  the  roots,  round  and  portly,  that  they  nourished  in 
their  soil — and  the  west  wind  brought  him  the  scent  of 
the  gorse  on  Boarzell,  very  faintly,  for  now  only  the 
thickets  of  the  top  were  left. 

Almost  the  whole  south  was  filled  by  the  great  lumpish 
mass  of  the  Moor,  no  longer  tawny  and  hummocky,  but 
lined  with  hedges  and  scored  with  furrows,  here  and 
there  a  spread  of  pasture,  with  the  dotted  sheep.  A 
mellow  corn-coloured  light  rippled  over  it  from  the 
west,  and  the  sheep  bleated  to  each  other  across  the 
meadows  that  had  once  been  wastes.  .  .  . 

"  My  land/'  murmured  old  Reuben,  drinking  in  the 
breeze  of  it.  "  My  land — more  to  me  than  Alice/' 
Then  with  a  sudden  fierceness  : 

"I'm  shut  of  her!" 

§5- 

The  next  year  came  the  great  Unionist  collapse.  The 
Government  which  had  bumped  perilously  through  the 
South  African  war,  went  on  the  rocks  of  an  indignant 
peace — wrecked  by  Tariff  Reform  with  the  complication 
of  Chinese  Labour  and  the  Education  Bill.  Once  more 
Reuben  took  prominent  part  in  a  general  election.  The 
circumstances  were  altered — no  one  threw  dead  cats  at 
him  at  meetings,  though  the  common  labouring  men  had 
a  way  of  asking  questions  which  they  had  not  had  in 

•65. " 

Old  Backfield  spoke  at  five  meetings,  each  time  on 
Tariff  Reform  and  the  effect  it  would  have  on  local 
agriculture.  The  candidate  and  the  Unionist  Club  were 
very  proud  of  him,  and  spoke  of  him  as  "  a  grand  old 
man/'  On  Election  Day,  one  of  the  candidates'  own 
cars  was  sent  to  fetch  him  to  the  Poll.  It  was  the  first 
time  Reuben  had  ever  been  in  a  motor,  but  he  did  his 
best  to  dissemble  his  excitement. 

"  It's  lik  them  trains,"  he  said  to  the  chauffeur, 
"  unaccountable  strange  and  furrin-looking  at  first,  but 


THE    VICTORY  449 

naun  to  spik  of  when  you're  used  to  'em.  Well  I 
remember  when  the  first  railway  train  wur  run  from 
Rye  to  Hastings — and  most  people  too  frightened  to  go 
in  it,  though  it  never  maade  more'n  ten  mile  an  hour/' 

Though  the  country  in  general  chose  to  go  to  the  dogs, 
Reuben  had  the  consolation  of  seeing  a  Conservative 
returned  for  Rye.  He  put  this  down  largely  to  his  own 
exertions,  and  came  home  in  high  good  humour  from 
the  declaration  of  the  Poll.  Mr.  Courthope,  the  successful 
candidate,  had  shaken  him  by  the  hand,  and  so  had  his 
agent  and  one  or  two  prominent  members  of  the  Club. 
They  had  congratulated  him  on  his  wonderful  energy, 
and  wished  him  many  more  years  of  usefulness  to  the 
Conservative  cause.  He  might  live  to  see  a  wheat-tax 
yet. 

He  compared  his  present  feelings  with  the  miserable 
humiliation  he  had  endured  in  '65.  Queer ! — that 
election  seemed  almost  as  real  and  vivid  to  him  as  this 
one,  and — he  did  not  know  why — he  found  himself 
feeling  as  if  it  were  more  important.  His  mind  re- 
captured the  details  with  startling  clearness — the  crowd 
in  the  market-place,  the  fight  with  Coalbran,  the  sheep's 
entrails  that  were  flung  about  .  .  .  and  suddenly, 
sitting  there  in  his  arm-chair,  he  found  himself  mutter- 
ing :  "  that  hemmed  geate  !  " 

It  must  be  old  age.  He  pulled  himself  together,  as  a 
farm-hand  came  into  the  room.  It  was  Boorman,  one 
'  of  the  older  lot,  who  had  just  come  back  from  Rye. 

"  Good  about  the  poll,  maaster,  wurn't  it  ?  "  he  said 
— the  older  men  were  always  more  cordial  towards 
Reuben  than  the  youngsters.  They  had  seen  how  he 
could  work. 

"  Unaccountable  good." 

"  I  maade  sure  as  how  Mus'  Courthope  ud  git  in, 
Taun't  so  long  since  we  sent  up  another  Unionist — 
seems  strange  when  you  and  me  remembers  that  a  Tory 
never  sat  fur  Rye  till  '85." 


450  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  When  did  you  come  back  ?  " 

"  I've  only  just  come  in,  maaster.  Went  raound  to 
the  London  Trader  after  hearing  the  poll.  By  the  way,  I 
picked  up  a  piece  of  news  thur — old  Jury's  darter  wot 
used  to  be  at  Cheat  Land  has  just  died.  Bob  Hilder 
toald  me — seems  as  she  lodges  wud  his  sister." 

"  Urn." 

"  Thought  you'd  be  interested  to  hear.     I  remember 
as  how  you  used  to  be  unaccountable  friendly  wud  them 
Jurys,  considering  the  difference  in  your  position." 
'  Yes,  yes — wot  did  she  die  of  ?  " 

"  Bob  dudn't  seem  to  know.  She  allus  wur  a  delicate- 
looking  woman." 

''  Yes — a  liddle  stick  of  a  woman.    That'll  do,  now." 

Boorman  went  out,  grumbling  at  "  th'  oald  feller's 
cussedness,"  and  Reuben  sat  on  without  moving. 

Alice  was  dead — she  had  died  in  his  hour  of  triumph. 
Just  when  he  had  succeeded  in  laying  his  hands  on  one 
thing  more  of  goodness  and  glory  for  Odiam,  she  who 
had  nothing  and  wanted  nothing  had  gone  out  into  the 
great  nothingness.  A  leaden  weight  seemed  to  have 
fallen  on  him,  for  all  that  he  was  "  shut  of  her." 

The  clock  ticked  on  into  the  silence,  the  fire  spluttered, 
and  a  cat  licked  itself  before  it.  He  sat  hunched  miser- 
ably, hearing  nothing,  seeing  nothing.  In  his  breast, 
where  his  heart  had  used  to  be,  was  a  heavy  dead  thing 
that  knew  neither  joy  nor  sorrow.  Reuben  was  feeling 
old  again. 

§6. 

"  Please,  maaster,  there's  trouble  on  the  farm." 
Reuben  started  out  of  the  half-waking  state  into 
which  he  had  fallen.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  the 
sunlight  had  gone,  and  a  wintry  twilight  crept  up  the 
wall.  Maude  the  dairy-woman  was  looking  in  at  the 
door. 

"  Wot  is  it  ?    Wot's  happened  ?  " 


THE    VICTORY  451 

"  Boorman  asked  me  to  fetch  you.  They've  had 
some  vrother  wild  the  young  Squire,  and  he's  shot  a 
cow/' 

"  Shot  one  of  my  cows  !  "  and  Reuben  sprang  to  his 
feet.  "  Where,  woman  ?  Where  ?  " 

"  Down  at  Totease.  He  wur  the  wuss  for  liquor,  I 
reckon." 

Reuben  was  out  of  the  house  bare-headed,  and  running 
across  the  yard  to  the  Totease  meadows.  He  soon  met 
a  little  knot  of  farm-hands  coming  towards  him,  with 
three  rather  guilty-looking  young  men. 

"  Wot's  happened  ?  "  he  called  to  Boorman. 

"  Only  this,  maaster — Dunk  and  me  found  Mus' 
Fleet  a-tearing  about  the  Glotten  meadow  wud  two  of 
his  friends,  trying  to  fix  Radical  posters  on  the  cows — 
seems  as  they'd  raaked  up  one  or  two  o'  them  old  Ben 
the  Gorilla  posters  wot  used  to  be  about  Peasmarsh, 
and  they'd  stuck  one  on  Tawny  and  one  on  Cowslip, 
and  wur  fair  racing  the  other  beasts  to  death.  Then 
when  me  and  the  lads  coame  up  and  interfere,  they 
want  to  fight  us — and  when  we  taake  hoald  of  'em, 
seeing  as  they  'pear  to  be  a  liddle  the  wuss  for  drink, 
why  Mus'  Fleet  he  pulls  out  a  liddle  pistol  and  shoots 
all  around,  and  hits  poor  oald  Dumpling  twice  over." 

"  Look  here,  farmer,"  said  one  of  the  young  men — 
"  we're  awfully  sorry,  and  we'll  settle  with  you  about 
that  cow.  We  were  only  having  a  rag.  We're  awfully 
sorry." 

"  Ho,  indeed  !  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  And  you'll  settle 
wud  me  about  the  cow  !  Wur  it  you  who  shot  her,  I'd 
lik  to  know  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  actually  fire  the  pistol — but  we're  all  in 
the  same  boat.  Had  a  luncheon  over  at  Rye  to  cheer 
ourselves  up  after  seeing  the  Tory  get  in.  We're  awfully 
sorry." 

"  You've  said  that  afore,"  said  Reuben. 

He  pondered  sternly  over  the  three  young  men,  who 


452  SUSSEX    GORSE 

all  looked  sober  enough  now.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Dumpling  was  no  great  loss  ;  fifteen  pounds  would  have 
paid  for  her.  But  he  was  not  disposed  to  let  off  George 
Fleet  so  easily.  Against  the  two  other  youths  he  bore 
no  grudge — they  were  just  ordinary  ineffective  young 
asses,  of  Radical  tendencies,  he  noted  grimly.  George, 
however,  stood  on  a  different  footing  ;  he  was  the 
mocker  of  Odiam,  the  perpetrator  of  many  gross  and 
silly  practical  jokes  at  its  expense.  He  should  not 
escape  with  the  mere  payment  of  fifteen  pounds, 
for  he  owed  Reuben  the  punishment  of  his  earlier 
misdeeds. 

"  The  man  as  shot  my  cow  shall  answer  fur  it  before 
the  magistrate/'  he  said  severely. 

"  Look  here "  cried  George  Fleet,  and  his  two 

friends  began  to  bid  for  mercy,  starting  with  twenty 
pounds. 

"  Be  a  sport/'  pleaded  one  of  them,  when  they  had 
come  to  forty,  "  you  simply  can't  hand  him  over  to  the 
police — his  father's  Squire  of  the  Manor,  and  it  would 
be  no  end  of  a  scandal." 

"  I  know  who  his  faather  is,  thank' ee,"  said  Reuben. 

Then  suddenly  a  great,  a  magnificent,  a  triumphant 
idea  struck  him.  He  nearly  staggered  under  the  force 
of  it.  He  was  like  a  general  who  sees  what  he  had 
looked  upon  hitherto  as  a  mere  trivial  skirmish  develop 
into  a  battle  which  may  win  him  the  whole  campaign. 
He  spoke  almost  faintly. 

"  Someone  go  fur  the  Squire." 

"  Sir  Eustace  !  " 

"  Yes — fetch  him  here,  and  I'll  talk  the  matter  over 
wud  him." 

"  But " 

"  Either  you  fetch  him  here  or  I  send  fur  the  police." 

The  two  young  men  stared  at  each  other,  then  George 
Fleet  nodded  to  them  : 

"  You'd  better  go.      The  dad'll  be  better  than  a 


THE    VICTORY  453 

policeman  anyhow.    Try  and  smooth  him  down  a  bit 
on  the  way/' 

"  Right  you  are  " — and  they  reluctantly  moved  off, 
leaving  their  comrade  in  the  enemy's  hands. 

However,  Reuben's  whole  manner  had  changed.  His 
attitude  towards  George  Fleet  became  positively  cordial. 
He  took  him  into  the  kitchen,  and  made  Maude  give  him 
some  tea.  He  himself  paced  nervously  up  and  down,  a 
queer  look  of  exaltation  sometimes  passing  over  his  face. 
One  would  never  have  taken  him  for  the  same  man  as 
the  old  fellow  who  an  hour  ago  had  huddled  weak  and 
almost  senile  in  his  chair,  broken  under  his  life's  last 
tragedy.  He  felt  young,  strong,  energetic,  a  soldier 
again. 

The  Squire  soon  arrived.  Reuben  had  him 
shown  into  the  parlour,  and  insisted  on  seeing  him 
alone. 

"  You  finish  your  tea,"  he  said  to  George,  "  and  bring 
some  more,  Maudie,  for  these  gentlemen,"  nodding 
kindly  to  the  two  young  men,  who  stared  at  him  as  if 
they  thought  he  had  taken  leave  of  his  senses. 

In  the  parlour,  Sir  Eustace  greeted  him  with  mingled 
nervousness  and  irritation. 

"  Well,  Backfield,  I'm  sorry  about  this  young  scape- 
grace of  mine.  But  boys  will  be  boys,  you  know,  and 
we'll  make  it  all  right  about  that  cow.  I  promise  you  it 
won't  happen  again." 

"  I'm  sorry  to  have  given  you  the  trouble  of  coming 
here,  Squire.  But  I  thought  maybe  you  and  I  cud  come 
to  an  arrangement  wudout  calling  in  the  police." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  certainly.  You  surely  wouldn't  think 
of  doing  that,  Backfield.  I  promise  you  the  full  value  of 
the  cow." 

"  Quite  so,  Squire.  But  it  aun't  the  cow  as  I'm 
vrothered  about  so  much  as  these  things  always  happen- 
ing. This  aun't  the  first  '  rag,'  as  he  calls  it,  wot  he's 
had  on  my  farm.  I've  complained  to  you  before." 


454  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  I  know  you  have,  and  I  promise  you  nothing  of 
this  kind  shall  ever  happen  again." 

"  How  am  I  to  know  that,  Squire  ?  You  can't  kip 
the  young  man  in  a  prammylator.  Now  if  he  wur  had 
up  before  the  magistrate  and  sent  to  prison,  it  'udbe  a 
lesson  as  he'd  never  disremember." 

"  But  think  of  me,  Backfield  !  Think  of  his  mother  ! 
Think  of  us  all !  It  would  be  a  ghastly  thing  for  us.  I 
promise  to  pay  you  the  full  value  of  the  cow — and  of 
your  damaged  self-respect  into  the  bargain.  Won't 
that  content  you  ?  " 

"  Um,"  said  Reuben — "  it  might." 

The  Squire  thought  he  had  detected  Backfield's  little 
game,  and  a  relieved  affability  crept  into  his  manner. 

"  That'll  be  all  right,"  he  said  urbanely.  "  Of  course 
I  understand  your  feelings  are  more  important  to  you 
than  your  cow.  Well  do  our  best  to  meet  you.  What 
do  you  value  them  at,  eh  ?  " 

"  The  Fair-plaace." 

§7- 

He  had  triumphed.  He  had  beaten  down  the  last 
resistance  of  the  enemy,  won  the  last  stronghold  of 
Boarzell.  It  was  all  his  now,  from  the  clayey  pastures 
at  its  feet  to  the  fir-clump  of  its  crown.  A  trivial  event 
which  he  had  been  able  to  seize  and  turn  to  his  advan- 
tage had  unexpectedly  given  him  the  victory. 

The  Squire  had  called  it  blackmail  and  made  a  terrible 
fuss  about  it,  but  from  the  first  the  issues  had  been  in 
Reuben's  hands.  A  public  scandal,  the  appearance  of 
Flightshot's  heir  before  the  county  magistrates  on  the 
charge  of  shooting  a  cow  in  a  drunken  frolic,  was  simply 
not  to  be  contemplated  ;  the  only  son  of  the  Manor 
must  not  be  sacrificed  to  make  a  rustic  holiday.  After 
all,  ever  since  the  Inclosure  the  Fair  had  been  merely  a 
matter  of  toleration  ;  and  as  Backfield  pointed  out,  it 
could  easily  go  elsewhere — to  the  big  Tillingham 


THE    VICTORY  455 

meadow  outside  Rye,  for  instance,  where  the  wild 
beast  shows  pitched  when  they  came.  All  things  con- 
sidered, resistance  was  not  worth  while,  and  Flightshot 
made  its  last  capitulation  to  Odiam. 

Of  course  there  was  a  tremendous  outcry  in  Peas- 
marsh  and  the  neighbourhood.  Everyone  knew  that 
the  Fair  was  doomed — Backfield  would  never  allow  it 
to  be  held  on  his  land.  His  ploughs  and  his  harrows 
were  merely  waiting  for  the  negotiations  to  be  finished 
before  leaping,  as  it  were,  upon  this  their  last  prey.  He 
would  even  cut  down  the  sentinel  firs  that  for  hundreds 
of  years  had  kept  grim  and  lonely  watch  over  the  Sussex 
fields — had  seen  old  Peasen  Mersch  when  it  was  only  a 
group  of  hovels  linked  with  the  outside  world  by  lanes 
like  ditches,  and  half  the  country  a  moor  like  the  Boar's 
Hyll. 

The  actual  means  by  which  he  acquired  the  Fair- 
place  never  quite  transpired,  for  the  farm-men  were 
paid  for  their  silence  by  Sir  Eustace,  and  also  had  a 
kindly  feeling  for  young  George  which  persisted  after 
the  money  was  spent.  However,  one  or  two  of  the 
prevalent  rumours  were  worse  for  Reuben  than  the 
facts,  and  if  anyone,  in  farmhouse  or  cottage,  had 
ever  had  a  grudging  kindness  for  the  man  who 
had  wrested  a  victory  out  of  the  tyrant  earth,  he  forgot 
it  now. 

But  Reuben  did  not  care.  He  had  won  his  heart's 
desire,  and  public  opinion  could  go  where  everything 
else  he  was  supposed  to  value,  and  didn't,  had  gone. 
In  a  way  he  was  sorry,  for  he  would  have  liked  to  discuss 
his  triumph  at  the  Cocks,  seasoning  it  with  pints  of 
decadent  ale.  As  things  were,  he  had  no  one  to  talk  it 
over  with  but  the  farm-men,  who  grumbled  because  it 
meant  more  work — Maude,  who  said  she'd  be  sorry 
when  all  that  pretty  gorse  was  cleared  away — and  old 
mad  Harry,  now  something  very  like  a  grasshopper, 
whose  conversation  since  the  blaze  at  Grandturzel  had 


456  SUSSEX    GORSE 

been  limited  entirely  to  the  statement  that  "  the  house 
was  afire,  and  the  children  were  burning." 

But  this  isolation  did  not  trouble  Reuben  much.  He 
had  lost  mankind,  but  he  had  found  the  earth.  The 
comfort  that  had  sustained  him  after  the  loss  of  David 
and  William,  was  his  now  in  double  measure.  The  earth, 
for  which  he  had  sacrificed  all,  was  enough  for  him  now 
that  all  else  was  gone.  He  was  too  old  to  work,  except 
for  a  snip  or  a  dig  here  and  there,  but  he  never  failed  to 
direct  and  supervise  the  work  of  the  others.  Every 
morning  he  made  his  rounds  on  horseback — it  delighted 
him  to  think  that  they  were  too  long  to  make  on  foot. 
He  rode  from  outpost  to  outpost,  through  the  lush 
meadows  and  the  hop-gardens  of  Totease,  across  the 
lane  to  the  wheatlands  of  Odiam,  and  then  over  Boar- 
zell  with  its  cornfields  and  wide  pastures  to  Grand- 
turzel,  where  the  orchards  were  now  bringing  in  a 
yearly  profit  of  fifteen  pounds  an  acre.  All  that  vast 
domain,  a  morning's  ride,  was  his — won  by  his  own 
ambition,  energy,  endurance,  and  sacrifice. 

In  the  afternoon  he  took  life  easy.  If  it  was  warm 
and  fine  he  would  sit  out  of  doors,  against  the  farm- 
house wall,  his  old  bones  rejoicing  in  the  sunshine,  and 
his  eager  heart  at  the  sight  of  Boarzell  shimmering  in 
the  heat — while  sounds  of  labour  woke  him  pleasantly 
from  occasional  dozes. 

When  evening  came  and  the  cool  of  the  day,  he  would 
go  for  a  little  stroll — round  by  Burntbarns  or  Socknersh 
or  Moor's  Cottage,  just  to  see  what  sort  of  a  mess  they 
were  making  of  things.  He  was  no  longer  upright  now, 
but  stooped  forward  from  the  hips  when  he  walked. 
His  hair  was  astonishingly  thick — indeed  it  seemed 
likely  that  he  would  die  with  a  full  head  of  hair — but  he 
had  lost  nearly  all  his  teeth— a  very  sore  subject,  wisely 
ignored  by  those  who  came  in  contact  with  him.  The 
change  that  people  noticed  most  was  in  his  eyes.  In 
spite  of  their  thick  brows,  they  were  no  longer  fierce  and 


THE    VICTORY  457 

stern  ; — they  were  full  of  that  benign  serenity  which 
one  so  often  sees  in  the  eyes  of  old  men — just  as  if  he 
had  not  ridden  roughshod  over  all  the  sweet  and  gentle 
things  of  life.  One  would  think  that  he  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  trample  down  happiness  and 
drive  love  out  of  doors — one  would  think  that  having 
always  lived  mercifully  and  blamelessly  he  had  reaped 
the  reward  of  a  happy  old  age. 

§8. 

Reuben  did  not  go  to  the  Fair  that  autumn — there 
being  no  reason  why  he  should  and  several  why  he 
shouldn't.  He  went  instead  to  see  Richard,  who  was 
down  for  a  week's  rest  after  a  tiring  case.  Reuben 
thought  a  dignified  aloofness  the  best  attitude  to  main- 
tain towards  his  son — there  was  no  need  for  them  to  be 
on  bad  terms,  but  he  did  not  want  anyone  to  imagine 
that  he  approved  of  Richard  or  thought  his  success 
worth  while.  Richard,  for  his  part,  felt  kindly  disposed 
towards  his  father,  and  a  little  sorry  for  him  in  his 
isolation.  He  invited  him  to  dinner  once  or  twice,  and, 
realising  his  picturesqueness,  was  not  ashamed  to  show 
him  to  his  friends. 

There  were  several  of  his  friends  at  Starcliffe  that 
afternoon — men  and  women  rising  in  the  worlds  of 
literature,  law,  and  politics.  It  was  possible  that 
Richard  would  contend  the  Rye  division — in  the 
Liberal  interest,  be  it  said  with  shame — and  he  was 
anxious  to  surround  himself  with  those  who  might  be 
useful  to  him.  Besides,  he  was  one  of  those  men  who 
breathe  more  freely  in  an  atmosphere  of  Culture,  Apart 
from  mere  utilitarian  questions,  he  liked  to  talk  over 
the  latest  books,  the  latest  cause  celebre  or  diplomatic 
coup  d'etat.  Anne,  very  upright,  very  desiccated, 
poured  out  tea,  and  Reuben  noted  with  satisfaction 
that  Nature  had  beaten  her  at  the  battle  of  the  dressing- 


458  SUSSEX   GORSE 

table.  Richard,  on  the  other  hand,  in  spite  of  an  accen- 
tuation of  the  legal  profile,  looked  young  for  his  age  and 
rather  buckish,  and  rumour  credited  him  with  an  intrigue 
with  a  lady  novelist. 

He  received  his  father  very  kindly,  giving  him  a  seat 
close  to  the  table  so  that  he  might  have  a  refuge  for  his 
cup  and  saucer,  and  introducing  him  to  a  gentleman 
who,  he  said,  was  writing  a  book  on  Sussex  commons 
and  anxious  for  information  about  Boarzell. 

"  But  I  owe  you  a  grudge,  Mr.  Backfield,  for  you 
have  entirely  spoilt  one  of  the  finest  commons  in  Sussex. 
The  records  of  Boarzell  go  back  to  the  twelfth  century, 
and  in  the  Visitations  of  Sussex  it  is  referred  to  as  a 
fine  piece  of  moorland  three  hundred  acres  in  extent 
and  grown  over  with  heather  and  gorse.  I  went  to  see 
it  yesterday,  and  found  only  a  tuft  of  gorse  and  firs 
at  the  top." 

"  And  they're  coming  out  this  week/'  said  Reuben 
triumphantly. 

"  Can't  I  induce  you  to  spare  them  ?  There 
are  only  too  few  of  those  ancient  landmarks  left 
in  Sussex." 

"  And  there'd  be  fewer  still,  if  I  had  the  settling  of 
'em.  Td  lik  to  see  the  whole  of  England  grown  over 
wud  wheat  from  one  end  to  the  other/' 

"  It  would  be  a  shame  to  spoil  all  the  wild  places, 
though/'  said  a  vague-looking  girl  in  an  embroidered 
frock,  with  her  hair  in  a  lump  at  her  neck. 

"  One  wants  a  place  where  one  can  get  back  to 
Nature,"  said  a  young  man  with  a  pince-nez  and  open- 
work socks. 

"  But  my  father's  great  idea,"  said  Richard,  "  is  that 
Nature  is  just  a  thing  for  man  to  tread  down  and 
subdue." 

"  It  can't  be  done,"  said  the  young  man  in  the  open- 
work socks — "  it  can't  be  done.  And  why  should  we 
want  to  do  it  ? — is  not  Nature  the  Mother  and  Nurse  of 


THE    VICTORY  459 

us  all  ? — and  is  it  not  best  for  us  simply  to  lie  on  her 
bosom  and  trust  her  for  our  welfare  ?  " 

"  If  I'd  a-done  that/'  said  Reuben,  "  I  shouldn't  have 
an  acre  to  my  naum,  surelye." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  with  an  acre  ?  What  is  an 
acre  but  a  man's  toy — a  child's  silly  name  for  a  picture 
it  can't  understand.  Have  you  ever  heard  Pan's 
pipes  ?  " 

"  I  have  not,  young  man." 

"  Then  you  know  nothing  of  Nature — the  real  goddess, 
many-breasted  Ceres.  What  can  you  know  of  the  earth, 
who  have  never  danced  to  the  earth's  music  ?  " 

"  I  once  stayed  on  the  Downs,"  said  the  girl  in  the 
embroidered  frock,  speaking  dreamily,  "  and  one 
twilight  I  seemed  to  hear  elfin  music  on  the  hill.  I  tore 
off  my  shoes  and  let  down  my  hair  and  I  danced — I 
danced  .  .  ." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  youth  in  the  open-work  socks  approv- 
ingly. "  That's  very  like  an  episode  in  '  Meryon's 
House,'  you  know — that  glorious  scene  in  which  Jennifer 
the  Prostitute  goes  down  to  the  New  Forest  with  Meryon 
and  suddenly  begins  dancing  in  a  glade." 

"  Of  course,  being  a  prostitute,  she'd  be  closer  to 
Nature  than  a  respectable  person." 

"  I  thought  '  Meryon's  House  '  the  worst  bilge  this 
year  has  given  us,"  said  a  man  in  a  braided  coat. 

"  Or  that  Meryon  has  given  us,  which  is  saying  more," 
put  in  someone  else. 

"  I  hate  these  romantic  realists — they're  worse  than 
the  old-fashioned  Zola  sort." 

The  conversation  had  quite  deserted  Reuben,  who 
sat  silent  and  forgotten  in  his  corner,  thinking  what 
fools  all  these  people  were.  After  he  had  wondered 
what  they  were  talking  about  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
he  rose  to  go,  and  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  fresh 
air  of  Iden  Hill  came  rustling  to  him  on  the  doorstep. 


460  SUSSEX    GORSE 

"  He's  a  fine  old  fellow,  your  father,  Backfield,"  said 
the  man  who  was  writing  a  book  on  Sussex  commons. 
"  I  can  almost  forgive  him  for  spoiling  one  of  the  best 
pieces  of  wild  land  in  the  county/' 

"  A  magnificent  old  face/'  said  a  middle-aged  woman 
with  red  hair — "  the  lining  of  it  reminds  me  of  those 
interesting  Italian  peasants  one  meets — they  wrinkle 
more  beautifully  than  a  young  girl  keeps  her  bloom.  I 
should  like  to  paint  him/' 

"  So  should  I,"  said  the  girl  in  the  embroidered  frock 
— "  and  I've  been  taking  note  of  his  clothes  for  our 
Earlscourt  Morris  Dancers." 

Richard  felt  almost  proud  of  his  parent. 

"  He's  certainly  picturesque — and  really  there's  a 
good  deal  of  truth  in  what  he  says  about  having  got  the 
better  of  Nature.  Thirty  years  ago  I'd  have  sworn  he 
could  never  have  done  it.  But  it's  my  firm  conviction 
that  he  has — and  made  a  good  job  of  it  too.  He's 
fought  like  the  devil,  he's  been  hard  on  every  man  and 
himself  into  the  bargain,  he's  worked  like  a  slave,  and 
never  given  in.  The  result  is  that  he's  done  what  I'd 
have  thought  no  man  could  possibly  do.  It's  really 
rather  splendid  of  him." 

"  Ah — but  he's  never  heard  Pan's  pipes,"  said  the 
youth  in  the  open-work  socks. 

§9. 

Reuben  drove  slowly  homewards  through  the  brooding 
October  dusk.  The  music  of  the  Fair  crept  after  him 
up  the  Foreign,  and  from  the  crest  he  could  see  the 
booths  and  stalls  looking  very  small  in  the  low  fields  by 
the  Rother.  "  I  wouldn't  leave  my  little  wooden  hut 
for  you,"  played  the  merry-go-round,  and  there  was 
some  mysterious  quality  in  that  distant  tune  which 
made  Reuben  whip  the  old  horse  over  the  hill,  so  as  to 
be  out  of  reach  of  it. 

So  much  of  his  life  had  been  bound  up  with  the  Fair 


THE    VICTORY  461 

that  somehow  a  part  of  him  seemed  to  be  jigging  at  it 
still,  down  in  the  Rother  field.  It  was  at  the  Fair  that 
he  had  first  resolved  to  conqu-r  Boarzell,  and  he  saw 
himself  rushing  with  the  crowd  to  Totease,  scuffling 
round  the  barns  while  the  bif  flames  shot  out  .  .  .  and 
later  he  saw  himself  dancing  with  Naomi  to  Harry's 
fiddle.  What  had  Harry  played  ? — a  strange  tune, 
"  The  Song  of  fjeth's  Hou.e  " — one  never  heard  it  now, 
but  he  could  remember  fragments  of  it.  ... 

These  troubling  thoughts  were  forgotten  when  he 
came  to  his  o,wn  front'-- rs.  He  drove  up  to  the  farm- 
house door,  r^nd  harding  over  the  trap  to  a  boy,  went 
out  ior  Ms  -veruig  inspection  of  Boarzell. 

The  sunset  guttered  like  spent  candles  in  the  wind — 
the  rest  of  the  sky  was  grey,  like  the  fields  under  it. 
The  distant  bleating  of  sheep  came  through  the  dropping 
swale,  as  Reuben  climbed  the  Moor.  His  men  were 
still  at  work  on  the  new  ground,  and  he  made  a  solemn 
tour  of  inspection.  They  were  cutting  down  the  firs 
and  had  entirely  cleared  away  the  gorse,  piling  it  into 
a  huge  bonfire.  All  that  remained  of  Boarzell's  golden 
crown  was  a  pillar  of  smoke,  punctured  by  spurts  and 
sparks  of  flame,  rising  up  against  the  clouds.  The  wind 
carried  the  smell  away  to  Socknersh  and  Burntbarns, 
and  the  farm-men  there  looked  up  from  their  work  to 
watch  the  glare  of  Boarzell's  funeral  pyre. 

Reuben  moved  away  from  the  crest  and  stood  looking 
round  him  at  what  had  once  been  Boarzell  Moor.  A 
clear  watery  light  had  succeeded  the  sunset,  and  he  was 
able  to  see  the  full  extent  of  his  possessions.  From  the 
utmost  limits  of  Grandturzel  in  the  south,  to  the  Glotten 
brook  in  the  north,  from  Socknersh  in  the  east  to  Cheat 
Land  in  the  west — all  that  he  could  see  was  his.  Out 
of  a  small  obscure  farm  of  barely  sixty  acres  he  had 
raised  up  this  splendid  dominion,  and  he  had  tamed  the 
roughest,  toughest,  fiercest,  cruellest  piece  of  ground 
in  Sussex,  the  beast  of  Boarzell. 


462  SUSSEX    GORSE 

His  victory  was  comj  He  had  done  all  that  he 

had  set  out  to  do.  He  had  done  what  everyone  had 
told  him  he  could  neve*  do.  He  had  made  the  wilder- 
ness to  blossom  as  the  rose,  he  had  set  his  foot  upon 
Leviathan's  neck,  and  m,  dc-  him  his  Servant  for  ever. 

He  stood  with  his  anvs  folded  OVS°T  his  chest,  and 
watched  the  first  stars  flicker  above  Castweasel.  The 
scent  of  the  ground  steamed  \p  to  mingle  wfel\  tKt  EQ 
a  soft  rasp  of  frost  was  in  tte  air,  and  t'he  earth  which 
he  had  loved  seemed  to  breatfie  out  towards  him,  and 
tell  him  that  by  his  faithful  se  won  not  only 

Boarzell  but  all  gracious  soil.  s  of  seed-time 

and  harvest,  all  the  tender  mysteries  J  sap   and  grcwtii. 

He  knew  that  not  only  the  land  within  these  boun- 
daries was  his — his  possessions  stretched  beyond  it,  and 
reached  up  to  the  stars.  The  wind,  the  rain,  dawns, 
dusks,  and  darkness  were  all  given  him  as  the  crown  of  his 
faithfulness.  He  had  bruised  Nature's  head — and  she  had 
bruised  his  heel,  and  given  him  the  earth  as  his  reward. 

"  I've  won,"  he  said  softly  to  himself,  while  behind 
him  the  blazing  gorse  spat  and  crackled  and  sent  flames 
up  almost  to  the  clouds  with  triumphant  roars — "  I've 
won — and  it's  bin  worth  while.  I've  wanted  a  thing, 
and  I've  got  it,  surelye — and  I  aun't  too  old  to  enjoy  it, 
nuther.  I  may  live  to  be  a  hunderd,  a  man  of  my  might. 
But  if  I  go  next  week,  I  shan't  complain,  fur  I've  lived 
to  see  my  heart's  desire.  I've  fought  and  I've  suffered, 
and  I've  gone  hard  and  gone  rough  and  gone  empty — 
but  I  haven't  gone  in  vain.  It 'sail  bin  worth  it.  Odiam's 
great  and  Boarzell's  mine — and  when  I  die  ...  well, 
I've  lived  so  close  to  the  earth  all  my  days  that  I  reckon 
I  shan't  be  afraid  to  lie  in  it  at  last." 


PRINTED  BY  WILLIAM   BRCNDON   AND   SON,    LTD.,   PLYMOUTH,    ENGLAND 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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